Always Read the Fine Print
by aethernitri
Summary: Vera's world ended not with a bang, but with a whimper, a protracted, painful dying of everything and everyone she knew. After waking up on a bloody altar in an unfamiliar place, Vera stumbles into Markarth with its mess of corruption and politics. And just as things start to settle down, a Nord and a Dunmer roll into town with the mother of all bad deals.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Vera's world ended not with a bang, but with a whimper - a protracted, painful dying of everything and everyone she knew. As it turns out, the apocalypse is contagious - either that, or Vera has spectacularly bad luck. And just when things are finally settling down - as much as they can in a place like Markarth - a Nord and a Dunmer roll into town with the mother of all bad deals.

Always read the fine print.

This story starts about a year before the events of the game and will continue through the timeline and the DLCs. Loosely follows canon.

* * *

"I've been told you know your way around the Reach, but I'd wager you're not from here, are you?" The giant bearded Nord tapped the side of his massive nose. "I can smell these things, you know. They say the Reach's got a way of sinking its roots into you and not letting go. What's your story, Breton? High Rock? "

Vera shifted on the bar stool and took a sip of ale, delaying the expected response. "Not much of a story."

The lie didn't taste all that bitter anymore. It wasn't much of a story — in no small part because the last six months were starting to blur, and what came before had bleached of all color, an old photograph in sepia from a place long gone. A past that no longer felt like hers. Some things from the early days stood out, crisp, arresting moments. Waking up on a bloody altar, stark naked and in horrible agony. Wandering, terrified, through the remains of carnage — bodies strewn on the ground, torn to shreds, not a living soul in sight. Then, later, hiding from rough looking types who roved the hills and crags (she couldn't tell at first whether they were hunters or brigands — or whether there was a difference). Hiding from wild animals who were busy evading the rough types, or, when they got lucky, busy eating them right back. Still. Keeping to the wilderness had felt like a safer choice, originally.

She had come upon the herbalist's hut after about a month of skulking around and sleeping in caves, on the verge of protein poisoning from her diet of rabbit and lean fowl. She was used to trapping rats and pigeons — and other urban fauna — so the rabbits hadn't been that much different. It was early summer when she arrived and the pickings were slim, nothing ripe yet, and the few early cases of the runs had discouraged her from experimenting with the wild edibles.

The man who lived in the ramshackle house — an old Altmer, as the tall gold-skinned bastards were called here (she'd learned to stay the fuck away from the black-robed ones quickly enough) — was half-senile with age and cloudy with a drinking habit, but he was kindly, in a rheumy, distracted, can't-remember-what-I-did-with-the-nightshade kind of way. He'd let her stay, initially as a cook, then as a helper. And then as a friend. He'd had a daughter he said — she died young, at 67. He didn't offer the details — it had been one hundred and two years ago.

Vera didn't press him about it.

It was an odd friendship — two people who had little in common except for their respective loneliness. One night, after a bottle of Alto wine shared over grilled mushrooms and roasted squash, she spilled herself to him, all the horrors, all the impossibilities of her displacement. Not the how of it, nor the why — there wasn't much she could offer by way of sense in that department — but the what that had come before. He didn't seem all that surprised. Grumbled something about the mysteries of Aetherius, but didn't offer anything like an explanation. After that, he took it upon himself to teach her some basics — the history, the geography, the politics. And some of his trade. Though his mind was slipping, and they both knew it. Lovinar didn't seem upset about it, exactly. They both knew why she was there, why he'd let her stick around. He didn't want to die alone. And he wanted to pass something on, before he went.

Once she got the hang of the flora, foraging came easily — she'd had to do this once the last of the infrastructure had collapsed, and these mountains were, oddly enough, safer than the crammed urban exoskeleton overrun with gangs and madmen she had called home. Lovinar taught her a bit of his craft, too — enough to get by, to assist him with his messes. She didn't have the patience for the finicky work of brewing, but she was good at finding stuff — learning the plants, recognizing where they'd grow. A sort of intuitive sense of which plant would work best, and which were still too young to be potent. She didn't love the work, but she didn't mind it, either. The biodiversity had dazzled her initially. Her old world had lost most of its lifeforms — the plants she knew, she knew from books. There weren't computers widely available by then anymore, something about the collapse of rare earth mining. Once, apparently you could just snap a picture with your phone, and it'd identify the plant for you. Vera remembered phones only vaguely. Her mother had still known the world's lushness first hand, but Vera was born into extinction.

Lovinar had tried to coax her magic to manifest — you're a sodding Breton, girl, it shouldn't be so hard — but she couldn't perform even the most basic of spells. Not even to light a fire. It made no sense to her. Lovinar kept describing what the connection to her magic should feel like — but she felt nothing. Until, one night, again after a bottle of wine she'd traded for some basic health potions with a local encampment of Redguard hunters, he brought out a purple gem and an old, ugly amulet, worn to a glossy sheen on the reverse side where the carved bone had rubbed against skin and cloth after years of use. "The enchantment is getting thin," he'd told her, putting the violet gem in her hand. It glowed and pulsed, warm against her palm. It was tiny, about the size of a wild apple, but something about it kept Vera wanting to pry it apart, to bite into it and taste what that pulsing swirl would feel like on her tongue. Lovinar noticed her gaze, and chuckled to himself, coughing on the exhale. The cold had settled into his lungs by that point, and it wasn't letting go, no matter how many tonics he brewed.

He had an altar — a small thing, made of a troll's skull, three eye sockets staring back at Vera with their amethyst inlays, an old wooden board holding the chartreuse filigree of the focal circle. The thing inside the gem in her palm wanted to burrow itself under her skin like a worm, like something that would make itself at home and lay its larvae. Part of her wanted to reach for it, to make room, to welcome it into herself. An almost motherly feeling.

"Yes," Lovinar said then. "You can feel it, can you not?"

Vera had swallowed around the tightness in her throat. Yes. Yes, she could. And what to do with it, too, even before Lovinar offered his explanation. The faint trace of the amulet's previous occupant had left a kind of structure behind it. It was almost empty — like a half-forgotten village, half-abandoned, where no one but the old people lingered. In her past life, Vera sought out places like that once she escaped the city. They offered a kind of muted, overlooked safety.

"You will take the soul into yourself, but do not, under any circumstances, let it settle. Do you understand, girl? You feel where the grooves of the enchantment are in the amulet, yes?"

Vera had nodded. That, and what it was for, too. She felt it a bit with plants as well, vague and faltering and barely there at all — Lovinar claimed that she should be able to know a plant's use even if she had never seen it before, to intuit it if she could just reach into it. Something about how plants too connected to everything else. "It'll come in time," he reassured. Vera was doubtful on that account — he was mistaking his inhuman lifespan of accumulated expertise for intuition.

But with the amulet, that elusive insight was there. A rush of images. A warm cloak on a chilly night. The crackle of a hearth fire when the wind outside howled. A cup of steaming spiced wine. The cloak was worn thin, and the fire had dwindled, and the wine had cooled.

"It's a frost enchantment," she said, muzzy with the realization of her own sudden certainty.

Lovinar had smiled his crinkly smile, pleased that he could finally give her something to take with her, into a future from which he would fade.

The frost amulet had saved her life that winter, on her way to Markarth to find an Altmer called Calcelmo. She had a letter for him from Lovinar, a request for tutelage. Calling in a final favor. Who could refuse a dying colleague's wishes?

He passed on the first day of Sun's Dawn, a peaceful fading. She held his hand until he went cold, and buried him out back, the ground hard from the frost, unyielding, as if it didn't want him yet. The icy wind smeared the tears on her cheeks.

Then, Markarth. Her first terrified night in the great stone city carved into the mountainside, with its constant rumble of water and subterranean dwemer machinery mimicking the sound of traffic — back in her early childhood, when there still was any traffic to speak of. Silver and blood and something nasty brewing under the surface. The first day, there'd been a Forsworn attack, and the guards had harassed her, an unfamiliar Breton in a city of conspiracy and plots. They confiscated everything, too, including Lovinar's letter and the little coin she had — as evidence, they'd claimed. One of them, a bald Nord with a hard glint in his pale eyes, had insinuated that she could get it all back — for the right price. She told him to kindly fuck off, and both men had laughed, confident with their own impunity and a little drunk on unchecked power. But they let her go, with nothing but the clothes on her back, but her dignity intact, at least. She learned from the jeweler in the market that Calcelmo was gone on some expedition, and wasn't expected back for another two months.

At first, she'd hid in the warrens like a feral rat, hungry — she'd been hungry all the time — but it had been oddly reassuring. In the last few years of her past life, hunger had been a constant, familiar companion.

It took her a few days to realize there were no real jobs to speak of — the smith might have liked a new apprentice, but Vera didn't know a lick about smithing. The inn was overstaffed, if anything. Lovinar had taught her to read — but her writing was still slow, the unfamiliar alphabet confusing in its repetitiveness, in the subtle nuances of its calligraphy, which she kept getting wrong. So scribe work was out.

In the end, Bothela took her in — what was one more stray Breton lugging around unchecked baggage full of heartbreak and secrets? It was better than the alternative — which boiled down to two things, really: cracking rocks or servicing the men who cracked rocks.

Vera liked the old woman's approach to the craft — her crass practicality, her sardonic wit, her cynicism. Muiri had the potion work well-in-hand, but they needed a forager — and Vera had offered, eagerly, before they'd turn her out. She brought a sack of glowing mushrooms she'd gathered in one of the abandoned mines — to show her willingness to crawl around underground and put herself in harm's way if needed. Bothela had given her a once-over. Vera knew what the old witch would see — a scrawny woman, not quite young enough to pass for a newly minted bright-eyed and bushy-tailed adventurer. A vagabond, then. A derelict, who slept in the warrens. Vera had brought her hand to her messy mop of poorly cropped black hair, self-conscious and hoping it didn't look as bad as it felt. The worn clothes on her back, and the chipped dagger at her belt probably didn't offer much reassurance either.

"I'm low on juniper, nirnroot, and bilsterwort," Bothela had said and tossed her a satchel. "You'll share the room with Muiri. Be back by sundown."

That had been a month ago. She'd settled in. Still waiting for Calcemo to return — the feeling of the soul gem in her palm wasn't letting go of her so easily.

"Still with me, lass?"

Vera eyed the Nord again. He was watching her expectantly over his ale and his plate of poached potatoes and venison roast. Middle aged, heavily tattooed — with an accent as thick as the haft of the double-handed axe strapped to his back. She took another sip to give herself something to do. "Why do you ask?" He didn't seem like a bad sort, but it was hard to tell.

He leaned in, ale and tobacco on his breath. "I need a local guide, as I said, but I like to get to know the people I'm hiring. The old woman in the apothecary said you wouldn't mind some extra septims, but I prefer for them to be well-spent. As my associate likes to remind me, septims don't grow on trees."

Vara took another sip of ale. Yeah, right. He could pay any of the local mercs — hell, Vorstag would probably take the job. Even now, there he was, sitting on his ass on the other side of the inn, pretending not to watch the newcomer. Been at it for weeks now, grousing about how no one was hiring. No. Something about this Nord was decidedly fishy.

"Who's your associate?" Vera asked instead.

The Nord motioned with his head, and Vera followed his gaze. She hadn't noticed the man in the shadowed corner. Surprising, that, because he wasn't exactly blending in with the surroundings. His armor looked alien — like something made of an insect's carapace. Even in the heat of the tavern, he wore a type of helmet, a red cowl obscuring his features — the entire arrangement giving him the air of an oversized mantis. He must have noticed her gaze, because he inclined his head and tipped his glass — not ale, Vera noted. Kleppr's overpriced brandy, she guessed.

"There are plenty of idle hands in Markarth." Why would these two want to hire her? Something was out of place here, some undercurrent agenda she was missing. She didn't like it. "Why me?"

"I need someone who's good at finding things. Someone who knows their way around the caves and crags of this gods-forsaken dunghole." The Nord chuckled. "I'm a valley man myself, see. And I'm looking for something I... misplaced. Your current employer told me you got a knack for that sort of work." He huffed good-naturedly and started fishing in his satchel until he procured a pipe. He lit up, letting the pungent smoke drift off towards the rafters. "Won't lie — I'm not looking to spend much. You lot got spoiled here with all the silver gushing from out of the city's bowels. We've been on the road for some time. My pockets ain't that deep at the moment, lass."

Bullshit. He wasn't eating frugal. And his buddy in the corner sure wasn't drinking frugal either. "What are you looking for, then?"

He grinned into his beard, the tattoos twisting with the expression. Vera noted that his left incisor was chipped. "I'll tell you if you take the job."

She shouldn't have considered it. But the prospect of having enough cash to bribe the guards into returning her recommendation letter was too damn tempting. Calcelmo didn't exactly have a reputation for taking in strays. "If you're looking to hire a fighter, I won't do you much good."

"Not looking for a fighter. Got the best sellsword this side of Tamriel, as that lout in the corner likes to remind me." He rolled his shoulders. "And I'm no sodding milk drinker myself, if you're worried."

"I'm sure you're both lethal."

"Aye, that we are. I told you, I'm looking for someone with a good sense of the terrain." He leaned in again. "One hundred septims up front, and one hundred after we find what I'm looking for."

"Make it one hundred and fifty up front and two hundred on the other end, and we have a deal." Maybe she could just price him out. Then again, three hundred and fifty septims should be enough for "expediting the process" on getting her requisitioned "evidence" back from the city guards, so if he actually shelled out the cash... The guards wouldn't return her gold, of course, but that didn't matter as much. She just needed the letter by the time Calcelmo returned.

The Nord rumbled a guttural laugh. In the corner, his partner cocked his head to the side, watching them from behind his helmet.

"Hear that, Teldryn? She's almost as expensive as you."

Vera put down her mug of unfinished ale and fished for a coin to place on the counter. "Let's be clear here. You're buying my expertise. You're not buying anything else."

The Nord looked on in confusion, his reddish eyebrows drawing together. Then it dawned on him, and he guffawed. "If I were looking for that kind of guide, lass, I'd be huffing and puffing my way up to the Temple of Dibella. No offense — it's not like you're not fetching and all — but it ain't like that. And I'll vouch for him too." He motioned with his chin. "We won't touch a hair on your head."

"Fine." It was out before she could bite it back.

He grinned again, extending his hand, large and calloused with weapon work. "I'm Undnar. What's your name, then?"

"Vera," she said. They shook on it.

Undnar straightened, raking his long mane back from his face. Both the mane and the face looked like they could use a wash. His armor, too, was covered in a thick layer of road grime. He didn't smell too great, either.

"It's getting late. Let's meet tomorrow morning, and I'll explain the situation. I'll have your money, then."

Vera nodded. She already regretted agreeing. With any luck, Undnar would change his mind and find someone else.

"Sero, Oblivion take you, don't just lurk there like some sodding chaurus, come greet our new partner."

Undnar was loud, the sort of man who took up room like he was owed it. Vera ignored the curious stares of the other patrons. Her eyes went to Vorstag, who was getting up, unsteady on his feet from another day of drinking. Alarm prickled her spine — Vorstag could get a tad unpredictable when he felt slighted, which was most of the time when he was drunk — which was most of the time.

He stared at her with an unpleasant leer.

Vorstag wasn't the worst of them, but he wasn't great. He'd ignored Vera at first — courtesy of Muiri, who turned heads wherever she went. It suited Vera fine, and she stuck to the apprentice alchemist like a particularly clingy invisible sidekick whenever she had to go anywhere in the city. She liked the girl. And Muiri seemed grateful for the company, but something was eating her on the inside, something dark and unpleasant that she couldn't bring out into the light of day. She'd gotten... peculiar in the past few weeks. Secretive. Muttering something about the Night Mother, whatever that was. It got harder and harder to drag her out of the Hag's Cure. Maybe when all this was said and done, Vera would have enough coin left over for one of the long-term rooms in the inn.

Vorstag, in the meantime, was striding forth — or, rather wobbling forth unsteadily, trying to look like he was striding. Vera had lost some of her starved cat look since she arrived, her figure filling out and her skin shedding some of its malnourished roughness. Bosmer men seemed to like her for some reason — something about her features or figure either struck them as just the right kind of exotic, or as just the right kind of familiar, she couldn't tell which. There was something about social class there too — whom you approached, and whom you left well enough alone. The Nords usually didn't give her so much as a second look, but there was always the exception that confirmed the rule. Point was, right around the time Muiri got herself firmly ensconced in the apothecary with only her herbs and her muttering for company, Vorstag, damn him, had suddenly discovered Vera's existence.

Eventually, she'd need protection. You couldn't live in Markarth long-term without paying off someone to look out for you. She hadn't committed yet, even though Bothela had been dropping hints. There was a man, she'd said, someone who could yank on some threads behind the scenes. Could make some problems go away. Problems like Vorstag, or overly dutiful city guards.

She had considered taking a lover — not so much for the pleasure of it, as for the added insurance. Bored men were dangerous, and there were quite a few bored men in Markarth — those who didn't want to slave in the mines, or those who didn't have the connections to land a better job.

"Hey! Hey, Nord! I'm talking to you!" Vorstag stumbled forward, one hand braced on the back of a chair for added stability, the other going to the hilt of his sword. This wasn't going well. Vera's eyes darted to the exit. The bar was in the way. Why'd she sit on that side? "Did I hear correctly? You're looking for a guide?" He was slurring his words. Definitely not going well. "Well, look no further. Best swordsman in the Reach, right here."

Undnar looked him over. "And if I ever find myself looking for a swordsman, I'll make sure I come right to you, friend." A warning had crept into his voice, something hard beneath the earlier conviviality. "Right now, I have other needs."

Vorstag's leer intensified. "Oh, I bet you do. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, then, but I think she overcharged you. Isn't that right, doll?"

They were drawing eyes in earnest now, the other patrons shuffling in their seats for a better look at the prospective entertainment. Vera bit her tongue, and inched closer to the exit. She didn't need this. She survived because she didn't draw attention to herself. Vorstag was a pain, but she could handle him — unless his wounded pride called for retribution in some dark alley. These two were just passing through — they would reap none of the consequences.

The chitin-wearing fellow stood up from his chair and made his way over towards them, his movements deceptively lazy. That sense of dread pulled at Vera's stomach again, but it was too late by then. It was over in seconds. Vorstag didn't react — Vera didn't think he so much as heard. Chitin Suit's hand landed on the Nord's shoulder, a friendly gesture to diffuse the tension. The oaf started turning around — and then he collapsed onto the floor in a nerveless heap, like a tree falling. And had she been standing anywhere else, it would have been easy to miss the thumb that dug into the pressure point on the side of Vorstag's neck.

The "associate" turned to the barkeep. "Looks like your patron had a few too many drinks, surjo." The voice was a surprise. He was too short for a Nord — so Vera had expected the crisp lilt of Imperial diction. Not this sardonic raspy drawl, like smoke and chocolate. The accent, too, wasn't something she'd heard before.

Whoever this guy was, he was a trained killer. No wonder Undnar wasn't looking for a merc.

"Apologies." He didn't sound apologetic in the slightest. Instead, he stepped over Vorstag and stalked closer. And then he pulled off his helmet.

Vera choked back an instinctive scream. Fuck, it's a demon! Bluish grey skin, crimson eyes with oversized pupils that swallowed most of the sclera in a gaunt face that looked like something out of a Biblical kind that promised you fire and brimstone and bat-winged bastards with pitchforks. She blinked, trying to dislodge the apparition.

The apparition refused to be dislodged.

She'd read about Oblivion. Was this one of its denizens? No wonder he had kept his helmet on. She blinked again. The initial shock settled some. No. The fellow was an elf of some kind — the bony facial structure, the iris size, all of that fit with the typology she had begun to assimilate. But fucking hell, that coloring was rough.

His lips quirked in amusement. "Much as I'd like to flatter myself into believing that you've been struck speechless by my good looks, by your expression, I'm guessing you've never seen a Dunmer. Is that so?"

Get your shit together, you idiot. A Dunmer. She'd read about those too. Vera forced her shoulders into a shrug. "Are you from Morrowind, then?" Spectacularly inane questions aside, there was still the mess of Vorstag — no one was in a hurry to drag him to his room, either. With any luck, he wouldn't remember any of it — but since when had she been lucky?

"I was born in the city of Blacklight." Another smirk. "You should visit there, if you ever get the chance. It's spectacular."

She was still gaping, and he was enjoying it, the bastard. He extended a chitin-clad hand — the same hand that had put Vorstag out of commission. "Teldryn Sero, blade for hire. Best swordsman Undnar's money could buy." His eyes darted to his Nord employer. "I'm glad I'll finally be traveling with someone who seems... competent."

Vera's jaw tightened. She could tell a dig when she heard one. She hadn't exactly stood up for herself back there. Nope. In fact, she was about to turn tail, and get the hell away from the entire mess. Apparently, that hadn't left Chitin Suit with the best first impression. Still, she shook the offered hand and repressed the urge to wipe off her palm on her trousers. The texture of the armor was... unpleasant. "Until money changes hands, it's just a verbal agreement," she offered cautiously. Always leave yourself an exit.

"Quite right. Luckily, I'm not the one holding the purse strings." Another sharp smirk. "If you know what I mean..."

What you mean, you demonic-looking ponce, is that you don't think I'm worth the coin, Vera thought. And maybe the coin wasn't worth the trouble, either. There was still something off about this entire proposal.

"Oh, quit hassling the girl, Teldryn. Or have you forgotten that the guide was your idea?"

"It was, at that." He propped himself on the bar stool Vera had vacated earlier. "I hope you're as good at finding things as your employer claimed." He lifted the unfinished mug of ale Vera had abandoned and brought it to his lips. "Aside from trouble, that is."

Vera narrowed her eyes. There was something beneath the lazy sarcasm — something like a warning. Nope. Whatever this was, it wasn't worth the coin. She'd find some other way to get her letter back. But she'd be damned if she let the demonic ponce have the last word. She turned to face him. Chitin Suit was watching her over the rim of his glass with those strange crimson eyes.

"You're in Markarth, sera. Here, trouble finds you, if you're not careful."

He cackled. Actually, legitimately, cackled. "Are you?" He motioned with his requisitioned ale. "Careful, that is?"

Fuck him. Vera shrugged, swallowing back the sudden urge to kick the bar stool from under his ass. "I'm still alive, aren't I?"

"Funny thing with that." He took another sip. "You are… Until you aren't."

"Enough, Teldryn. Stop trying to scare the girl away, or you'll be looking for someone to take us to that gods-damned cave yourself."

Cave? Which cave? She did know those — well enough to know that there were some that you didn't go near if you planned on ever coming out.

"Ah, don't mind him. He's a bellyacher. Vera, was it? We'll meet you tomorrow, then. How about breakfast, hmm? My treat."

She should have asked for more money. Instead, she nodded. She hadn't committed to anything yet. Minimally, she wanted to talk it over with Bothela — see how much of a fee the guards would charge for her letter, and see if Bothela's contacts might offer a better deal. If she was outpriced from the start, there was no point in rocking the boat. Something about these two gave her bad vibes.

"It's a mining town. Breakfast is served early."

The Nord laughed — a big, full-throated bellow. "Then we better not stay up late, eh? Night, lass."

The Dunmer simply gestured with his ale.

"Goodnight," Vera offered, and made for the door. Vorstag, still on the floor, was stirring awake. That was the Silver-Blood Inn for you. You could get knifed on the floor, and no one would so much as pause in their drinking. One way or another, she didn't want to be there when he finally came to.

###

She hurried to the apothecary, trying to stick to the better lit parts of the city. The clank of the heavy door at her back brought relief, as it always did. She didn't mind the constant fear so much — it too had been a habitual companion for longer than she could remember. It was more the added layer, the unease of the prospective arrangement — and the promise of the goddamn coins. She could stay with Bothela for a time, but it was pretty obvious that the eponymous owner of the Hag's Cure wasn't exactly looking for a second apprentice. There was an agenda there too, and Vera wasn't sure she wanted to step into it. And while there was no guarantee that Calcelmo would take her on, even with the letter, the memory of the purple gem kept yanking at her with a craving she couldn't quite identify.

The shop was dark and quiet. Vera walked down the stone hallway, trailing her fingertips along the wall. Where did everyone go?

The door to the room she shared with Muiri was closed, but a small light filtered from the crack where feet had worn a groove in the stone over the years of use. Markarth was old. She rapped her fingers against the metal, waiting for a response. Nothing.

She pushed the door open.

Muiri was sprawled on the bed, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Vera's feet carried her forward. The Breton lifted her head from the pillow, her face red and puffy and streaked with tears.

"Muiri, what is it?" It looked like the last few weeks of weirdness were finally going to come to a head, after all. Well. It had been a weird sort of night.

"I…" The other woman wiped her face with the back of her hand, and sat up. Her gaze was empty safe for the horror, black and deep-rooted. "I'm… I'm pregnant. The bastard left me with child."

* * *

_Next up: A series of bad decisions_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **A string of questionable decisions, not all of them Vera's

* * *

"Start from the beginning."

In retrospect, that had been the wrong thing to ask. The beginning stretched back for the better part of Muiri's life — starting with Windhelm, the cold stone city on the ocean, where the girl grew up with some rich family, as a sort of satellite, or chaperon, or pet companion to the two sisters. It didn't make too much sense to Vera — her understanding of nobility was based on the two works of Shakespeare she'd read. It's not that books had been few, exactly: Vera's mother had been a militant collector, and they had at least twenty five between the two of them. Four Encyclopedias, too. But after the Great Burn of '78 — Vera had been seventeen, half-a-lifetime ago — you had to be packing some serious firepower to get your hands on any, because anything that was ever printed had been claimed by then. The Citadels probably had amazing libraries, but Vera was from the outskirts of the Split City (what used to be called Toronto on her mother's maps), and it hadn't fared so well after the influx of climate migrants from the south — mostly young, mostly white, mostly male, armed to the teeth and vicious as could be. A gleeful cruelty to them — and they had numbers on their side

Vera's mother had tried to cram as much education into her only child as she could, from early on, sensing the ruin to come, no doubt. She'd done her best. But she was a cartographer — not a historian.

In any case, whatever Muiri's life with the Shatter-Shields had been, it was rosy until it wasn't. Someone had killed one of the sisters — and from there, things had gone to shit, and fast. Muiri had taken up with some bloke she met over drinks at a local tavern, and they'd gotten friendly. Vera couldn't blame her — sometimes, these kinds of comforts were all you had, and you leaned on them because there was nothing else to carry your weight.

It went on for a while. Until the poor girl finally figured out that there was an agenda. Vera could have told her that from the start — when wasn't there one? But Muiri's life had been relatively simple up until then, all things considered.

So Markarth and Bothela hadn't been a vocational choice, exactly, but a matter of picking up the pieces, trying not to slash yourself open on them in the process. Vera could relate.

Once Muiri was all out of words, they sat quietly in the dimly lit room, the low rumble of the immeasurably vast, abandoned guts of the city vibrating through the walls of the apothecary, like a great beast snoring in its sleep. Vera wondered idly if something like this would one day come to her former world — new life built on old detritus, with little inkling of what came before. Nothing but myths and mystery, stories of something that was there first, but vanished in the blink of an eye, and whose purpose was as unfathomable as it was lost. It was a comforting thought, in a way. Some things were best forgotten.

"How far along are you?" she asked, her arm around Muiri's shoulders. There was a time when Martha held her just like that, over the same damn ordeal, too. It wasn't quite the same, mind. They had found a stash of Plan-B (expired) on a college campus, cordoned off because of the radiation (their Geiger counter said it was safe enough if they didn't come too close to where the collider had been), in the Student Health Center miraculously left mostly intact because of the packs of feral dogs. Martha, still bright as starlight under the grime of their shared flight from the ruins of their home, when they finally decided, over a shared bottle of moonshine, that this just wasn't livable. Martha, before the pneumonia took her. Antibiotics hadn't worked for twenty years, so it was a death sentence most of the time, and they both knew it. The winters had gotten bad, what with the Gulf Stream not doing its thing.

Muiri sighed, rubbed her face with both hands. "It's been four months since..." She trailed off, clenched her hands over the soft curve of her belly, where the fabric of her dress hugged the skin.

"Since you came to Bothela?" Yeah. Not. Since Muiri and the asshole who got her with child fucked last, more likely, Vera guessed. That didn't mean a thing in terms of the pregnancy. Muiri could've gotten knocked up the first time they did it, for all she knew. Vera tightened her arm around the girl's shoulders. Muiri huffed a sigh, exhausted from the toil of nocturnal admissions. She slumped, burying her face against Vera's neck. A safe haven, however temporary.

"I had little choice." Pain mixed with anger, an old, festering boil. You have to let it drain, love. It won't serve you. "They turned me out."

Vera nodded against Muiri's hair. "Have you told Bothela?" She forced her voice into a steady beat. Practical, even. Just another hurdle to take care of. It was better than asking the obvious question — why hadn't Muiri remedied the problem earlier? The alchemy of this place was... It was sophisticated, and more than Vera's world could ever offer. Imagine the thousands of plants, every single one of them potentially useful. How did you get your mind around such richness?

"I..." Muiri straightened, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "She won't let me work with poisons if she knows I'm with child. Thank the Divines I didn't have the morning sickness, but I won't be able to hide things much longer." She paused, turning it over in her mind. "And without the poison work... That's as many as six orders out of ten. At least."

Vera hummed in agreement. Over the past month, she's gotten a sense of how Bothela ran her business — based on the ingredients Vera was tasked with bringing back. You had your "love potions" — aphrodisiacs and stimulants, some vasodilators too, she guessed, mostly bought by the wealthier men of Markarth. Bothela liked to joke about how it gave them a bear's temper, but the joke was only a thin veneer that made the underlying truth easier to swallow. The violence of Markarth ran deep, as deep as its vessels of blood and silver.

Then you had the restoratives, but those were cheap — not because the ingredients were easy to procure, but because Bothela had an ethics, a sliding scale that made the basic potions, the stuff that cured the colds and the fevers and the bruises and scrapes, easy to purchase even if you didn't have much gold clinking in your pocket. Mining town, and all that.

And then, you had the poisons. It wasn't like the poisons you'd think — not the stuff that might kill you outright, after one sip or tainted wine. Not like in the stories. No. Poisons were subtle. Clinically induced ulcer. Clinically induced kidney dysfunction. Slow things that worked over years of subtle ingestion, drained you little by little, unobtrusively, with plenty of room for plausible deniability. A bad drinking habit. A poor diet. A habit of smoking after your meals.

Things you had to brew on the regular, for the right patron.

"It'll be over in six months, give or take." Vera tried to sound reassuring, despite the questionable guesstimate. Muiri's belly, now that she could see it, looked firmly into the 2nd trimester. "Then it'll be lactating, if you wanted to keep it, but just... you know. Don't taste the potions."

"I..." Muiri's gaze turned distant, trained on a murky future she couldn't see through. "I can't."

Why didn't you go to Bothela earlier?! Not like that was going to help now. "What if you did? Keep it, I mean?"

Muiri shook her head vehemently, and then slumped against the wall, drained and lost. "How? This is Markarth, Vee. And I haven't got the money to raise a babe, not even if I work myself to the bone. Bothela pays me what she can, but..."

Bothela's business was doing all right, but they weren't exactly rolling in gold, what with Yngvar coming by every few days to skim off the top. Unless someone took it upon themselves to overthrow the Silver-Bloods' stranglehold on the place, things weren't likely to change in the immediate future.

Fair was fair. Markarth was a shithole, as pitiless as any place she'd known — just more organized about it. But Muiri hadn't done anything to rid herself of the pregnancy, either — despite having the means. "There's more to the world than Markarth. How much would you need to start over somewhere else?"

Muiri considered. "I don't know. Right now, I can't even afford the carriage — never mind setting up in a new place." She nestled closer with an exhausted sigh. "If I'd known half the alchemy I know now when I met Alain, I wouldn't be in this mess, that's what galls me the most." She huffed a laugh, shaky, bitterly sardonic.

"If you knew half of what you know now, you'd have told this Dufont character to go jump into the Sea of Ghosts."

Muiri chuckled, a bit more heartily this time, but the bleakness returned quickly.

There was a maxim, one Vera's mother had a fondness for. Always put on your mask first. The etymology had to do with air travel, her mother had explained, though airplanes were as extinct as the elephants by the time Vera came about, but the origins of the saying didn't make it any less apt. Point was, you couldn't help someone else until you had firm ground under your own feet. But once you did, there was the other part of the expression. About helping the person in the seat next to you. Muiri was in the seat next to her, as far as Vera was concerned, but there wasn't much that could be done until Vera found something other than hot coals to walk on.

She sat, calculating. The resources that Vera's pay diverted could be rerouted back to Muiri if she managed to convince Calcelmo to take her on as a helper. She could still forage for the apothecary, simply selling the ingredients if she needed the extra coin. Muiri could probably hold on to her secret for another month, two if she ended up carrying small, or low. By then, Calcelmo would be back and they could break the "happy news" to Bothela as soon as Vera found new employment. Provided the Altmer didn't just tell Vera to scat.

One way or another, she had to get that damn letter, and quickly.

She made the decision, then and there, with Muiri's tears soaking into the collar of her worn shirt. "We're going to figure this out. In the meantime, don't do anything rash."

Muiri nodded muzzily, the emotional exhaustion finally catching up to her. Vera got up from the bed, plucked a few stalks of frost miriam from the dwindling bushel hanging over the hearth — they'd need to restock soon — and set the kettle over the fire. "I'm going to wait up for Bothela to talk inventory. Get some sleep, all right?" She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to chase away the onset of a headache.

Muiri picked herself up from the bed with a tired groan. "Bothela is going to have my hide for this."

Vera snorted. "Are you kidding? She will grandmother you within an inch of your life once she knows, so best prepare yourself." Bothela's cynical carapace was mostly that — a defense against a world that kept trying to eat you. Beneath all the spikes and the chitin, the old woman was a softy.

"Mara preserve me, I hope you're right."

Vera watched Muiri walk out of the room, presumably to the privy. Yep. Another month, and it was definitely going to start showing.

And speaking of chitin, she had work to do if she was going to take up Undnar and his demonic-looking Dunmer sidekick on their dubious proposal.

By the time Bothela returned, Muiri had gone off to bed, and Vera had taken up the entire counter with her maps. With most of the satellites reduced to floating junk without anything to receive or interpret the data they still broadcasted, cartography had been one of Vera's most essential skills. She started mapping the Reach early on, while Lovinar was still alive. The old herbalist had supplied her with charcoal and parchment readily enough, his initial puzzlement at the contour lines Vera used to approximate elevation ceding way to a sort of grumbling curiosity, then appreciation. Once he got the hang of the representational conventions she used — his short term memory was shit, but when it came to abstract stuff, the old mer was sharp — he helped her fine tune, correcting mistakes, filling in the blanks, adding layers of history to the topography. Vera's foraging had provided the rest.

Undnar had mentioned a cave. There were caves and caverns aplenty — the Reach was mostly limestone, a watery mess of underground erosion and man-made expansions on said erosion, of mines and karsts and dwemer tunnels reaching into the mountains' bowels. Trouble was, most of them were occupied by all sorts of unpleasantness.

"What's this, girl? Are you planning an invasion?" Vera looked up. The old woman thumped the jar of void salts she had brought on the counter and helped herself to some of the tea Vera had made, before collapsing into the carved armchair piled high with furs and cushions next to the hearth. "So? Did that nice young Nord manage to track you down?"

Vera cocked an eyebrow. "If you mean Undnar, I'm not sure that 'young' fits, and the jury's still out on 'nice,' but yes, he did."

Bothela took a sip of her tea, winced, and went to rummage for moon sugar in the cupboard. How Dwemer furniture managed to look both dainty and blocky was the real mystery of the vanished race, as far as Vera was concerned.

"You all look like 'young people' to me. Get to my age, you'll see. Where's that... Ah, there. You two go through my moon sugar when I'm not looking? Good thing the Khajiit are still camped outside of town." The old woman settled back into her chair, stirring her tea with an oversized spatula. "Undnar, that was the name. Curious fellow. And his Dunmer hired hand, still as fresh off the boat as you'd please with that armor and that accent."

"Hmm." Vera knew better than to insert herself into Bothela's monologue. The old woman had a way of approaching a topic like a sabre cat approached its prey — stalking it from a great distance.

"Quite the looker, isn't he? Had Muiri all giggly like a blushing maiden."

Vera blinked. Who? Undnar? Or the demonic-looking Dunmer?

"Hmm," she said.

"So. How long will you be gone, then?"

Vera's eyebrows drew in confusion. Had Bothela stopped by the inn on her way back to collect some gossip?

The old woman dismissed Verra's interrogative look with a wave of her spatula. "Vorstag made a spectacle of himself again, I hear. I'm glad someone finally put that good-for-nothing in his place. But you-" Bothela thrust the business end of the spatula in Vera's direction "-might want to spend a few days outside the city."

"Why?" Oh this wasn't going to be anything good. "Did something happen after I left?" Why couldn't Vorstag just get eaten by bears?

"It's not Vorstag you need to worry about, girl." Bothela lowered her voice. "I've been hearing things. About Ondolemar planning another raid, Oblivion swallow him whole. Been asking questions about anyone who's new." Her wrinkled face scrunched up in distaste, or derision — the intricate tracework of her facial tattoo obscuring the exact flavor of her expression. "I swear, that mer would crawl up his own arsehole if he thought he'd find a Talos worshiper in there."

Vera snorted, despite the sudden unease. Once Lovinar had learned about Vera's less than Nirnian origins, he had told her to always be mindful of two groups: the Thalmor, and the Vigilants of Stendar. So far, the advice had served her well. "We could send an anonymous report. 'It has come to our attention that Justiciar Ondolemar is harboring a Talos cult up his rectum.'"

Bothela's dry cackles echoed through the chamber before the old woman brandished her spatula in mock threat. "Hush, girl. There's a time for being clever, and there's a time for being smart. And the smart thing would be for you to take yourself out of the city until it all blows over. I have enough of a mess on my hands as it is, what with Muiri's bun in the oven and no husband to claim it."

Oh.

Bothela clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head, a sarcastic twinkle in her eyes. "I'm old, child, not blind. Why do you think I hired you? Don't get me wrong, now, you turned out to be a good investment. I wasn't lying to that Nord when I said you have a knack for finding things. But this is Markarth. We watch out for our own."

Vera nodded. That much made perfect sense.

"So. That brings me back to that Nord and whatever he's looking for. How much did he offer to pay you?"

"Three hundred and fifty."

Bothela quirked a brow.

"I haggled a bit."

"High price for a guide. Whatever he's looking for, it must be worth more to him than his gold. And what do you plan on doing with all that coin once you have it?"

If I have it, Vera thought. "I want to pay off the guards and get Lovinar's letter back. Do you think it'll be enough?" She sighed, rubbing her forehead. The headache wasn't going away. She needed sleep if she was going to meet Undnar for breakfast. The night wasn't getting any younger.

"Closer to five hundred, unless you sweeten the deal. Though who knows, perhaps the Child-God will find himself in a helpful mood. They won't hand it over with a 'pretty please,' that's for sure." The alchemist paused, ruminating. "Thought about what I mentioned? Might cost you less than the guards."

Ah, yes. Bothela's mysterious contact. There it was again. "I have a feeling it'll still cost me, just not in septims. At least with coins there are no strings attached."

Bothela sighed. "There are always strings attached, child. I can offer you a roof until you don't need one, but I'd sleep better if you had more than an old woman and a pregnant girl watching over you. You're still set on badgering that old Altmer codger once he's back?"

The memory of the soul gem tugged at Vera again, a phantom warmth in her palm. "Yeah."

"He's no sweetroll, that one. Cantankerous old bat." Bothela stretched and set aside her empty cup.

Vera grinned. "I have some practice with that. You've been training me well."

"Watch that sharp tongue of yours, child, or the hagravens might get it," Bothela tutted, her bony shoulders shaking with chortles.

Vera folded her maps and stuffed them back into her knapsack. "Bothela... what did you think of Undnar? Really? Something about him feels...strange."

"You won't find three hundred and fifty septims under a rock on the road, is what I think. I'd lend you the money myself if times weren't so lean." The old woman leaned forward. "He's asking you to take him around the mountains, not for your hand in marriage. Just don't lose your head over that handsome Dumer of his, and don't go tangling with the Forsworn."

"I think I can manage that much," Vera harrumphed. If Unmund and his buddy wanted to go poke at Forsworn encampments, they certainly didn't need her to tag along. She would be more than happy to point out the locations — preferably from the adjacent mountain range — and be on her merry way.

Bothela nodded. "I'll brew you some potions for the road. Get some rest, now. Something tells me you got a long day ahead of you."

* * *

_Next up: Thalmor shenanigans and getting out of Markarth_


	3. Chapter 3

_Proposals (not all of them business)_

* * *

The deep echoes of the bell that marked the end of the night-shift at the smelter reached Vera's ears through the swaddle of dreams and blankets, and she pulled the furs over her head, snuggling deeper into her warm cocoon. The smell of old ash and freshly stacked fire, of frost miriam and tundra cotton filtering through the pillowcase was homely, reassuring, a little island of safety she'd carved out for herself. Home. Temporary, yeah, but that was always the case, so you had to enjoy it while it lasted.

She counted the muffled strokes, vaguely pleased that she had at least another hour before she had to get herself ready, in time for the second bell that would drag the day-shift workers out of bed, into the tavern for a quick meal (for those able to afford it), and then back to the mines. Markarth never slept, pulsing day and night with its extractive heartbeat. It devoured its laborers like a great hungry beast, spitting out bones and broken bodies, but there was always more supply than demand, somehow — a buyer's market.

The bell struck another time and Vera froze. Oh, shit.

She hauled herself out of bed, catching the edge of the chamber pot with her heel and sloshing around its nocturnal contents. Stumbled around in mute panic, trying to pull on her clothes — tripped outright over her boots and almost went sprawling but caught herself — and then forced herself to stop. Breathe. Breathe. You're fine. Everything is fine. The old, ingrained panic of sudden flight, of mornings just like these where you thoughtyou had found safe harbor — until the telltale crackle of approaching gunfire — receded with her breaths. That world was behind her.

Undnar wouldn't melt. He could wait for a bit while she got herself ready. And if not, then perhaps he didn't need her help all that much. If fate wanted to take the lure of coins out of her hands, then maybe that was for the best. With any luck, the Nord had already found someone else to take him traipsing around the countryside.

Still, Vera put on her traveling gear. The mismatched pieces of armor she had bought or bartered from huntsmen were aesthetically underwhelming, but they were sturdy and practical. The bow, though, was a jewel — light as a feather, supple, the yew polished to a warm creamy glow and soft as velvet to the touch. A parting gift from a Bosmer hunter she met on the road to Markarth. It was convenience and safety at first, but he'd grown sweet on her — just sweet too, in a slightly monosyllabic, taciturn kind of way, but what his tongue lacked in eloquence, it made up in other skills. He was headed somewhere out west, some village — Riverun, or Riverwood — and they traveled together for two weeks, in the worst blizzard Vera had ever seen. "You're not gonna ask me to come with you?" she'd teased, in the relative warmth of their shared tent, her hand snaking down the hard planes of his abdomen, following the trail of coarse hairs until he tensed with a groan, the bronze skin over his chest breaking out in goosebumps. He tightened his arms around her. "If I did, would you say yes?" There was a sadness to him. They both knew the answer. "I'm getting old, Vee. I want to settle down somewhere. Have a roof over my head in the winters." She laughed, rolling over him, his hands on her hips guiding her in place. "Want to tell me about your arthritis too, old man?" He had chuckled, a boyish grin in a face that wore its years without apology. "I'll show you 'arthritis'."

He had taught her to shoot, putting unnecessary mileage on his journey, little excuses for the detours. Once, a lifetime ago, Dima had showed her how to handle a sniper rifle. It wasn't the same — the bow was a hell of a lot more work — but some things carried over.

She hooked the unstrapped bow to her pack, and hurried into the common room. Bothela greeted her with a curt head shake and a satchel thrust in Vera's direction. The old woman was in the middle of helping a customer — Ghorza, her apron stained with soot, and the back of her dress streaked with the sweaty work of the forge, was grousing about the "idiot apprentice." It was, as far as Vera could tell, a sort of hobby.

Vera waved at the Orsimer smith and snatched the proffered satchel from Bothela's outstretched hand: "Should last you for a week, don't get yourself killed, get me some canis root on your way back."

"Where's Muiri?"

Bothela's eyes darted from the scale she was using to weigh Ghorza's order of fire salts. "I sent her to the Khajiit. That moon sugar won't restock itself."

Perhaps she could catch Muiri on her way out of town — if Undnar and his sidekick were set on leaving the same day.

By the time Vera got to the tavern, the Silver-Blood Inn was packed to the gills — most of the miners had filed out, but at least two dozen soldier-types in Imperial armor, chipped around the edges and dirty as could be, were milling around, swinging between drunkenly bawdy and drunkenly rowdy. Vera cast her eyes about the place, catching Frappi's gaze. Kleppr's long suffering better half motioned with her head and pantomimed an eye roll before bustling over to a group of particularly loud military men at the large table in the corner. They had started a song — Ragnar the Red, as per usual.

There was no sign of Undnar.

Oh, well. She quickly dismissed the brief twinge of disappointment at the thwarted prospect of gold, and hung on to the relief lurking beneath the other emotion. This was for the best. She could still go out into the hills for a few days — getting out of Markarth while the Thalmor were feeling particularly "vigilant" wasn't such a bad plan. She might as well get breakfast before...

One of the soldiers jostled her on his way to the bar, slurring something that might have been meant as an apology, but sorely lacked consonants to pass. Vera righted herself, looked up — and there was Chitin Suit from the previous night. The Dunmer was propping up the wall on the other side of the tavern, partially obscured by the shadows of the massive hearth. Apparently, he had been watching her for some time because he motioned with his mug the second Vera's eyes landed on him. He had foregone the anonymity of his helmet for the sake of his drink.

No Undnar, though. Vera exhaled through her nose, trying to quell the sudden flare of unease. At this point, it was a little too late to backpedal. Maybe Demon Chops would just announce that they had moved on and hired someone else — and that would be the end of it. She made her way over to the back of the tavern through the throng of bodies. Red eyes followed her progress. The Dunmer looked faintly amused — like a slaughterfish looks vaguely jovial before it tries to bite your leg off. The soldiers at the large table abandoned Ragnar the Red to his decapitation, and were hollering a new lyrical offering about bears.

"I thought you two had left already."

Demon Chops lifted an eyebrow, the sharp wings of his facial tattoo accentuating the prominent brow ridges. "And be deprived of the pleasure of your 'guidance'? No, no." He gestured with his drink — Kleppr's appalling canis root tea, judging by the smell and the steam — took a sip, and made a face. "Foul liquid." Vera felt a brief flicker of solidarity, quickly dispelled. Demon Chops' eyes trailed over her in assessment, lingering on the bow at her back. Whatever conclusion he came to, it didn't look particularly sanguine, based on his expression. "It seems that you're still in luck, outlander. My patron is very... committed to this arrangement. He's a stubborn Nord, you'll find."

Vera narrowed her eyes. Either there was some layered subtext to his strategic pauses that she was missing spectacularly, or he just enjoyed the sound of his own gravitas. "Outlander? I'm a Breton." Give or take. "The Reach extends all the way to High Rock, you know."

He chuckled, his eyes scanning the room behind her. "I do hope you're not one of those Forseworn types — I've heard they're as wild as a pack of beasts."

Vera stepped around him to lean against the wall. This little chat had forced her to stand with her back to the rest of the tavern — and the door — and the small hairs at her nape were starting to wiggle in protest. "There's a very nice Dwemer museum if you're looking for something more civilized."

His lips quirked, but he forced his face into something approximating seriousness. "Are you offering a tour? I shudder to think how much that'll cost me."

"An arm and a leg. Those traps at the entrance are to die for." Calcelmo's pet project was a sort of a local joke in Markarth — the museum wasn't open to the public, unless the public didn't mind shedding some fingers and toes in exchange for their edification. Vera wondered what the Altmer kept in there.

Her quip earned her a throaty cackle — gravelly and surprisingly artless. "Sounds like a charming place!" He paused, sipped his tea — and winced again. "The dwarves were a clever race. I wonder what happened to them?"

Blew themselves up, most likely. Vera decided not to volunteer that particular nugget of wisdom. They watched in silence as two Nords ambled through the entrance — the larger one, red-haired and almost as wide as he was tall, looked a bit like her prospective employer. "Where is Undnar?"

"I'm certain he'll be along any moment now. When you didn't meet us in time for breakfast, I was instructed to wait-" he motioned a "ta-daa" with his hands "- and so here I am." There was a dry tartness under the humor.

"Do you always do as you're told?" Now where had that come from?

"Hmm." His eyes flicked to hers. "Under the right circumstances." He availed himself of another sip of tea. "And for the right price."

He turned away, scanning the room. It was a dubious improvement — from this angle, the Dunmer didn't seem quite so alien, but what he lost in otherness, he made up in other unpleasant reminders. There was one particularly bad gang that had sported a similar look — the head shaved on the sides, but with a crest of spiky hair on top, something to do with a genre of music, gone extinct long before Vera's time. The metal glinting in the Dunmer's ear set Vera's teeth on edge, her back muscles tensing in memory.

Breathe. Dima's motto for the years they'd watched out for each other, she and Martha and him, then Said and Jules. Their little family. Dima, with his glasses — more electric tape than plastic frame by that point — and his goddamn accordion and his sniper rifle. Use your eyes, not your memories, Vee. We're not our history.

Use your eyes. Vera forced to take another look, her howling ghosts quieting down. Demon Chops. She tried it for size. The nicknames had helped, early on, to domesticate the alien physiques instead of screaming herself hoarse from terror and alienation. It also helped with seeing past the similarities, to make them into people, not types. Lovinar had become Jaundiced Beanpole — to his face, too, and he had laughed himself silly when she accidentally slipped in a fit of pique over a botched potion and his vague instructions. Fae — Faendal — was Old Man, or sometimes Captain Grumpy. She was still testing one out for Muiri.

Someone must have busted the Dunmer's nose back in the day — a decent reset job, as far as Vera could tell, but it had left him with a slightly hooked nasal bridge. Sharp facial structure, check. Hooked nose, check. Red eyes, check. No horns, but she supposed that was splitting hairs at this point. Pitchforks could be acquired — even Gorza's feckless Imperial helper could probably forge one in a pinch. She stopped herself at speculating about cloven hooves and forked tails.

"Enjoying the view, outlander?" He didn't turn to look, just the corner of his mouth hitched upward.

"Do all Dunmer have facial tattoos?"

"Ah, that." He paused, ruminating. "Not all Dunmer. Why, do you... fancy one?"

Fancy one what? A facial tattoo? Or a Dunmer?

Vera quickly turned her gaze back to the rest of the tavern, trying to shake off the mild and entirely uncalled-for embarrassment. Focus, you nitwit.Where in the seven hells was Undnar?

"Ah, there you are! Finally!" Just in time with her uneasy thoughts, Undnar's massive figure materialized in the open doorway that lead to the chambers. One of the maids — Vera couldn't remember her name, a young Nord woman with hair so blond it was practically white, and a figure that ensured customer loyalty much better than the inn's overpriced swill — scurried past Undnar, her clothes suspiciously rumpled and her braids suspiciously in disarray. She had a slightly dazed smile on her face. Dumbass, Vera thought. Undnar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned wider, wagging his eyebrows in their general direction before making his way over, pushing through the drunken soldiers like a plow.

"An ale and some fried eggs, barkeep! Make them nice and runny, will ya?"

Well. Someone's had a good morning and worked up an appetite. No wonder Demon Chops had looked sour.

"About time," the Dunmer grumbled, before detaching himself from the wall. He motioned with his now empty cup. Somehow he had overcome his revulsion and finished the drink. "Go ahead. I'm right behind you."

"Good thing I was late, I guess," Vera muttered under her breath.

"Matter of perspective. Not that I wasn't enjoying the... waiting game."

Vera summarily ignored the vaguely sardonic purr at her back, and proceeded to one of the small tables in the corner — tiny thing, and therefore empty of other patrons, with only two chairs (the Dwemer ones that grew out of the floor). Undnar had plopped down on one of them, motioning with both hands in invitation.

De- Teldryn, that was the name, Vera reminded herself. Better get used to it, before she slipped and called him Demon Chops to his face. Teldryn offered a mock salute to his employer, and took up a new spot against the wall, pointing his chin at the empty chair. "Do seat. Associate."

"Not until you explain to me what it is you're looking for." She took the offered seat.

"Yes, yes, but food first. I am famished." Undnar stretched with a contented groan, all six feet eight of him, red mane sticking out in every direction. "Frappi, Beautiful Kind Goddess of the Hearth, would you avail my friend of another order of your fine sustenance?" he bellowed, somehow managing to drown out the din of the rowdy tavern.

Even from across the room, Vera could see Frappi's blush blooming on her cheeks. The woman waved her towel at Undnar in dismissal before disappearing in the kitchens. Kleppr, behind the bar, shot Vera a disparaging look — do you see what I have to put up with?

"Promised you breakfast, didn't I?"

Vera shrugged. "So? What-"

She didn't get a chance to finish. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Teldryn shift, suddenly on full alert. His hand went to the hilt of the curved blade at his side. "Oh, that can't be good."

Vera turned, following his gaze. No. No that was most definitely not good at all. Theirs weren't the only eyes that fastened on the three newcomers. The roar of the tavern quieted down.

The two plated Altmer marched in with pompous rigidity, clanking the whole way, but the third one, all in black, the sharp point of his hood giving him an avian and vaguely predatory look, glided in with deceptive casualness. And then his eyes fastened on Undnar and he motioned with his hand, ordering his retinue to trail after him while he made a beeline for their table, looking like he was mucking through shit the entire way.

Frappi, two plates of eggs in hand, halted at the entrance to the kitchens, then hurried on, depositing the breakfast in front of them before quickly retreating to Kleppr's side behind the bar.

The Thalmor planted themselves by their table. "You. Nord. I have not seen you before." The Altmer's nasal timbre left very little doubt as to how he felt about "Nords" he hadn't "seen before" — or Nords more generally. "The Thalmeri Dominion is here to root out all signs of Talos worship in this city. State your business in Markarth."

Undnar shoveled some eggs into his mouth and nodded with creepy enthusiasm. "Why, enjoying the sights, Justiciar! Splendid city! Great cooking! Good ale. And welcoming people!"

Vera chanced a look at the Thalmor. She'd only seen Ondolemar from afar — never in full Justiciar glory. She could have lived without the experience. She dug into her eggs, trying very hard not to imagine Ondolemar folding himself into a ouroboros in an effort to crawl up his own arsehole. Damn it, Bothela.

The Thalmor, apparently immune to Undnar's charms, squinted in suspicion. "What are you really doing here, Nord? I have received reports of a Nord openly agitating for Talos worship in the tavern yesterday evening."

Vera almost choked on her eggs. Fucking Vorstag. She'd bet half of her prospective septims that this was the lout's doing. Her eyes darted to the Dunmer, whose expression at that moment combined boredom, annoyance, and calculation. Damn it, he mouthed between pinched lips, his teeth flashing white in the shadows.

"As I said, Thalmor, I-"

"What is that amulet around your neck? Show it at once!" As if on command, Ondolemar's identical sidekicks bared their swords.

Vera looked at Undnar's neck. Sure enough, there it was, a leather cord coiling against ruddy skin, whatever pendant it carried hidden by the Nord's scaled armor. She was still vague about the nature of the conflict — or why the Thalmor got their knickers in a twist about Talos — but the historical details were the least of her worries at the moment. What did she get herself into? She should have just slept through the meeting.

Undnar heaved a theatrical sigh and relinquished his fork. "All right, all right. If I must... but you're spoiling the surprise, friend."

"I am not your friend, Nord!"

Undnar cast his eyes at Vera, and winked. And then he hooked his thumb under the cord, and let the amulet dangle free — a circle of intricately knotted copper holding a single turquoise jewel in the middle. "I admit. You've found me out, Thalmor. I'm in Markarth for more than just the fine cooking and the silver."

"An Amulet of Mara. Really."

"Why yes! Don't look so surprised! What, did you think I was wearing Talos's Axe under there?" Undnar's eyes glinted speculatively. He gave the Justiciar a thorough once-over. "Or are you interested?"

The Thalmor turned an alarming shade of orange, and sputtered — though the outrage had robbed him of all linguistic capacity.

"I jest, I jest. You Mers are too tall and too bony — like holding a damn tree. No, as you can see, I'm here to find a wife." Undnar winked conspiratorially. "And I think I just did."

The Justiciar pinched his lips and then he turned to Vera, a look of appraisal — quickly replaced by disapproval — twisting his features into a mask of mildly nauseated haughtiness. "This woman?"

The mouthful of eggs stuck in Vera's throat. She groped for the first available drink — which happened to be Undnar's ale — and gulped a swallow, the carbonation hitting her nose and triggering a sneeze. She managed to bring her elbow up to her face — just in time, too, or there would have been bits of egg on the Justiciar.

Undnar leaned to the side and enveloped Vera in a one-armed hug. "Isn't that right, my jewel?"

You demented snow troll, Vera thought, but managed a "Hmm."

"Your brutish matrimonial customs do not interest me, Nord." Apparently, Ouroboros had found his voice again — which was a good thing, because Vera had lost hers. "I am watching you. Both of you."

"You can, if you want. I'm the sharing sort." The demented Nord wagged one massive finger in warning. "If the lady agrees. Just keep your hands to yourself."

Vera thought the Thalmor would have an apoplectic fit, right then and there, and then the guards would somehow manage to charge them with murder. What in the ever loving fuck had she gotten herself into?

The Thalmor's eyes traveled towards the wall. "And who is this Dunmer, then?" Spoken like he had just stepped into something unsavory, and was now trying to scrape it off his boot.

Please, Vera thought, trying to hold on to the last shreds of sense. Please don't tell him he's your cousin from Morrowind.

"Why, he's my future bride's bodyguard, of course. Wouldn't want someone to steal her from under me, now would I? Isn't that right, my snowberry?"

Motherfucker, Vera thought. At her back, the Dunmer was overcome by a coughing fit.

Ouroboros cocked an imperious eyebrow.

"Damn ash. Sticks with you." By the sound of it, Demon Chops was trying to cover a laugh, the bastard.

Vera took another fortifying gulp of ale. All things being equal, she might as well play along. Whatever got the Justiciar out of their hair faster. She turned to Undnar. "I will remind you that we haven't agreed to anything yet." It came out suitably incensed. "In fact, you haven't even proposed properly. What kind of woman do you think I am, Undnar?" She cranked up the outrage — which wasn't too far a stretch anyway — and then she turned her most winsome smile on the Justiciar. He didn't look won over one bit, so Vera returned her gaze to the blasted Nord, who had somehow managed to finish all of his eggs, and was already making forays into the leftovers of her. "Isn't that right, dearest?"

Undnar put on a show of chastised sheepishness. "Quite right, quite right. So, Justiciar, if you don't mind? I have a marriage proposal to discuss."

"Savages." Ouroboros pivoted on his heels, gesturing with a closed fist at his two goons, and the three marched out of the tavern.

Undnar tucked the amulet back under his armor and grinned his chipped smile. "So. 'Snowberry.' Now that that's done, you ready to talk business?"

* * *

_Next up: With friends like these..._


	4. Chapter 4

_AN: So I totally screwed up and missed a chapter. Fixing this one, and adding a few new ones to compensate for the error._

* * *

"So what is it that you lost?"

Undnar, now equipped with another plate of potato hash with skeever gravy and garlic bread, motioned "wait" with his fork, drained half of his second mug of ale, pointed the fork at Sero, who was still adding unnecessary structural integrity to the wall, and, finally, waved at one of the freshly vacated chairs — the arrival of the Thalmor had scattered about half of the patrons. "Grub'un, 'um shit."

Grab one, and come sit, Vera translated after staring uncomprehendingly for a few blinks. Though "grub 'n numb shit" was a serviceable description of the general state of affairs too.

Demon Chops went off to retrieve the chair, angled it such that he could still watch the room, plonked down, one ankle over a knee, and extracted his satchel of smoking mixture. Since it was looking like they were going to be in the tavern for a while, Vera caught Frappi's gaze and mouthed "miriam tea," then snatched a bread roll. You never know when your next meal might be, and all that.

"Well, lass, this is where I must disabuse you of your mistaken notion." Undnar passed his hand over his beard, flicking the bits of food thus collected onto the floor. "I'm not looking for something I lost. As I said, I'm looking for something I misplaced."

Vera raised an eyebrow. "Is there some fine nuance I'm missing here?" She hadn't pegged Undnar for the punctilious sort.

The Nord belched, tapping his chest to dislodge the trapped air bubble before tearing off a piece of bread to chase around the leftover gravy. "Of course, there's a difference. It's misplaced. Which means — pay attention, now, it's in the word itself — that it's missing from the place where it should be."

"And what place is that?" Perfunctory question, at that point. Vera had a pretty good idea where this was going.

"Why, in my possession, of course!"

Fucker, Vera thought, and stuffed bread into her mouth, in case she got a bit too tempted to tell the Nord what she thought of his linguistic acrobatics. She should have known this was one of those grave-robbing scenarios. What else would this Nord, with his Dunmer merc in tow, want from a local guide?

There were plenty of old barrows — two smaller ones Vera had even explored in search of gravetar for Lovinar. The Altmer had warned her that the local Nord dead were of the restless variety — the barrows, as far as she could tell, were designed to keep the dearly undeparted from running around the countryside. "Keep to the entrance areas," Lovinar had admonished, "and do not disturb the armored corpses." Then, there was the process of scraping off gravetar — black resinous gunk used, she guessed, for preserving the mummies — from the places where it accumulated: mostly in the hollows. Such as armpits, mouth, and groin area. Not particularly pleasant work.

Frappi brought tea, and Vera leaned back in her chair, warming her hands on the mug cradled between her palms. The Nord was in no hurry to elaborate, probably waiting for her to ask for clarifications. He had moved on from stuffing his stomach to stuffing his pipe.

If they were grave robbers, then perhaps this played out in her favor, in the end. She would point out the barrows' locations — she could even take them as far as the entrance — and then they could go crawl around in the tunnels to their hearts' content, and she'd mind the camp outside. Five hundred septims, Bothela had said. Even if Undnar The Mad and Demon Chops didn't make it out, she'd still be left with almost a third of the full bribe.

Right. No skin off her back.

The itchy feeling at the base of her nape made her glance up — she had drifted off into her thoughts. The Dunmer was watching her with a mixture of amused curiosity and speculation. Likely waiting to see how she would react to his employer's semantic gymnastics. "So." She took another sip of tea. "I take it you're looking for someone to help you loot."

"Loot?" Undnar puffed up like an amorous pigeon. "I am no vulgar looter, Snowberry. Doesn't take much skill to do that. No. But first things first." He unclipped a leather purse from his belt and slammed it on the table, narrowly missing his plate. "It's all there. One hundred and fifty up front. I am a man of principles, lass. Bringing in a new partner aint's shoving coins down a wench's blouse. There are risks involved. We'll do this right."

Vera eyed him dubiously. How did Demon Chops put up with this troll? Probably because they were cut from the same less than upstanding cloth, was how. "In my experience, shoving coins where they're not wanted is always risky business. Minimally, you'll lose the coins, with nothing to show for it but your bruised pride."

The Nord's laughter boomed through the tavern, collecting a few curious glances. "Firebrand, aren't you? I like you, Snowberry. Are you saying you don't want the money?"

"I'm saying jingling some coins in my face isn't going to make me take a deal when I don't know what I'm walking into. You still haven't explained what it is that you've 'misplaced.'"

"Fine, fine," Undnar relented. "Smart girl. Teldryn, you still have that map? Let's not keep the lady in the dark, hmm? Give it a moment, I'll explain. You can count the coins in the meantime."

Vera pointedly ignored the satchel in front of her. The drawstring had come loose, and the gold inside caught the firelight. The septims looked exceptionally clean — as if someone had spent time polishing them.

Sero blew smoke out the side of his mouth, pinched his lips over his roll-up to free up his hands, and went rummaging in his pack. He extracted a folded note — crumpled and stained with grease — and passed it to Undnar. "Anything else?" A perfect melange of derisive and deferent. No matter how much he liked coin, the merc didn't exactly seem to enjoy being ordered around. Vera glanced at the note. In addition to the other damage, it had a very suspicious brown stain along the edge. She hoped it was just dried blood. Either way, she wasn't going to touch that thing with a ten foot pole.

Undnar pushed his plate to the side and smoothed out the paper on the table between them. "And there you have it. That moment in the old sagas when our fearless adventurers pore over a mysterious map that will lead them to their destiny," he declaimed, a gleeful twinkle in his eyes. "Behold, Snowberry. The map. We were hoping you'd start by helping us make sense of it."

Vera cocked her head to one side — that didn't help — so she cocked it the other way. Not an improvement. "You call that a map?" She was genuinely curious.

"Looks like a map to me," Sero drawled. "What would you call it, outlander?"

Vera glanced at the merc. "I'd call it a doodle, but I could be persuaded to amend it to scribble if you're persuasive. As a 'map' — if that's what it is — it's unusable. Though I suppose you could wipe your ass with it, in a pinch." Damn it, even in this place, there should be some standards for what passed for cartography.

"Not to your liking?" Something dark flashed under the layer of raspy sarcasm. Vera didn't think his face could do soft even if he tried it. No wonder he'd gone into hiring out his sword arm — he certainly looked the part. "Should've asked the fetcher to apply himself, I suppose." He dragged on his rollie, holding the smoke in before blowing it out in a quick hiss. "Pity I slit his throat first, then." And now, there was an unmistakable warning in his voice, lazy drawl notwithstanding.

Vera tensed. Her bow was unstrung — not that a longbow did you much good in a close fight — and she wouldn't reach her dagger in time, not against the merc. Undnar looked like he'd be slower, mass to velocity and all that, but the Dunmer was all coiled, compact energy.

"Sero, you keep trying to intimidate the lass, and I'll dock your pay. Now, now, Snowberry, before you bring the guards down on us." Undnar patted the diagram. "We lifted this off a bandit. Didn't go searching for trouble, either — but, there we were walking, just minding our manners, and there they were, and... well. You can imagine the rest."

Vera breathed out, forcing the tension to drain from her muscles. Her mind had conjured up a rather different scenario. She took a sip of tea, sloshed the liquid around, focusing on the heat. We're not our history. No, Dima, love, we are our history. Something about what she said had hit a nerve with Demon Chops, and he had lashed out — or, rather, showed his teeth. She filed it away, forcing herself to look at the Dunmer, face open, serious. "Nothing wrong with killing bandits." Easy there, asshole, I'm not your enemy. "Just stop commissioning them for drawing you maps, yeah?"

She got herself a chuckle for that one — slight surprise, oversized pupils widening, then a shift, his shoulders easing. He took another drag, blew smoke to the rafters, a perfect ring drifting into a distended oval. "If you have better candidates in mind, I'm all ears."

"Point is, lass, we need you to help us decipher this less than satisfactory 'doodle,' as you said. We know it's a map, and we need to get to wherever it's pointing." Undnar had shed his jovial dumbass act — for a moment, he looked almost grave, but then Frappi brought him another ale, and the happy buffoon mask came back on.

Vera leaned forward, examining the lines of the drawing. Now that she was focusing on it, the sketch wasn't so nonsensical. But you couldn't draw a map if you kept yourself on the ground — your mind had to take wing. This wouldn't tell them the distance, just the vantage point of where the doodler had stood. "All right. That right here-" she tapped the squiggle vaguely reminiscent of an anvil "- could be the Zenithar shrine, and if so, then that here looks like it's the peak east of... no, northeast of the island with the old temple."

She glanced at Undnar to see if he was following. Crickets. They really didn't know the area. All right, then. "That dotted line I'm guessing means you have to go around it, and this looks like..." Her lips went numb. "Ah, shit."

Undnar's bushy eyebrows lifted in question. "What is it, lass?"

Vera leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. Not for all the coin in Skryim, she wasn't. "That's Red Eagle Redoubt." This time, the look Undnar gave her wasn't so blank — but he hid it well, washing down the flash of recognition with more ale. Vera turned to the Dunmer. "One of the largest Forsworn camps this side of Markarth."

Demon Chops quirked an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth hitching up. "I'll remember to be suitably impressed."

"Can you take us there, girl?"

Vera forced her shoulders into a shrug. "No." Undnar and Sero exchanged a look. "I'm not going anywhere near that place. But I'll bring you close enough. And then you're on your own." Not her funeral. No skin off her back. She pulled out her own map, unfolding it over her knees since the table was stained and crowded with empty dishes. Undnar squinted at the drawing after attempting — and failing — to move his chair. "What's this, then?"

"That's a proper map."

"Looks likes doodles to me, lass, no offense — just more of them."

The Dunmer leaned forward, his eyes tracking across the paper. "What are those concentric lines?"

Vera looked up, nodding. Not a bad question. "Elevation."

"And these numbers here?" he tapped an elongated dark grey fingernail against the legend. The merc had nice hands, Vera thought suddenly. Long, strong fingers, with clearly defined joints. Pale scar across three knuckles on the left one.

She peeled her eyes away, refocusing. "That's my own notes, mostly idiosyncratic stuff. Won't be that useful to you." Sero seemed curious, though, and she didn't see any harm in elaborating. "I keep a record of how long it takes me to get places, depending on the season, and the weather."

"I see. What about the overlay right here?" The side of his hand brushed against her wrist as he reached around. "Surely, not doodles…"

Vera chuckled and tried to ignore the way her skin tingled at the brief contact. The merc ran hot — at this distance, she could feel the heat coming off him, presumably a difference in base bodily temperature, since he didn't look fevered. Some species adaptation, perhaps. "These marks are where I've spotted large predators. Square for bear, circle for sabre cat, crosses for wolves." She tapped her finger next to where he was pointing. "See. This cave here used to just have skeevers. About three months ago a she-bear moved in with two cubs. The younger one died — wolf pack got to him — so she's gone a bit touchy. So while this road here shows up on the maps you might buy in the market, it's no good for a lone traveler."

"And what are these?"

Ah, right. That was her using her own world's alphabet. Fortunately, just the first letter, not a full word, and thus plausibly deniable.

"Just a personal cypher, for marking resources." Distract him. "Say, if I want to pick up some skeever hides-" she traced a line to a spot southwest of the bear cave "-I would go right around here. There's a farm about a mile up-river, and their garbage washes up along this shallow bend here, so the skeevers have gotten nice and fat. I'm expecting the current to change once we're over the spring melt, so they'll probably migrate in another month."

"Clever," Sero trailed, looking up from the map to meet her gaze. "I am starting to see your point about the bandit's... ehem... artwork."

Vera nodded, irrationally pleased at the praise — before stuffing the unwelcome emotions back where they came from. Then again, fuck it. This was something she was good at — if that made Demon Chops less likely to embark on his "we're mean, lean, killing machines, little girl" routine, all the better.

"See, Teldryn, I told you she'd be useful!" Undnar was beaming at her like a proud parent. "I can smell these things, I'm telling ya."

"Hold your horses." Vera held her pinky against her mark for the Forsworn encampment, and pressed her thumb to the spot where the river crooked around the cliffs. "There's a little path the rams use to get to the water on that side. The cliffs there are steep, but it's the shortest way to the redoubt if you don't want to trek all the way around to the northern part. The cliffs will give some higher ground if you want to pick them off at long range — the other side, you're both downhill and upwind from them." She looked up. "I'll take you all the way to the foot of this cliff, to where the path starts, but no further. I'll wait for a day for you two to get back. I'll have healing potions and bandages if you come back banged up. After a day, if you're still not back, I'll head back to Markarth."

"What if the Forsworn capture us, lass? Won't you sweep in to the rescue?" Undnar approximated heartbroken chagrin, not very convincingly. "What if they do unspeakable things to our remains?"

Vera blew a raspberry. The Nord guffawed, slapping his knee. "Your remains won't care one way or another. I'll make an offering to Arkay on your behalf, if you'd like." She turned to the Dunmer. "Any funerary rights I should know about? Whom should I beseech on your account, if it comes to that?"

She had meant it as a joke, but something bitter passed in the Dunmer's eyes. He stuffed it down quickly. "Won't matter a whit, outlander. Not at this stage."

Vera shrugged. "Fine with me." She opened the purse, and counted the coins. Twice. "What are we looking for, anyway?"

Undnar smiled broadly. "Why, a sword of course!"

Vera nodded. Not her problem. "Up to the foot of the cliffs. No further."

She left her hundred and fifty septimes with Bothela before meeting the duo at the city gates.

Traveling with them turned out to be oddly... easy. The Nord and the Dunmer had an efficient routine, established over what Vera was guessing were months if not years of joint travel, and while they were clearly unfamiliar with the area, they didn't make stupid mistakes. She hunted but outsourced dressing the kills to Sero, who turned out better at it, frankly (Undnar didn't do shit except for tending the campfire and eating the food they cooked), and Vera was more than happy being left to her own devices, trapping fowl and supplementing their meals with small game and whatever she could forage: mostly early greens, tender and juicy and sweet with spring sap. The summer Vera arrived had been arid, gold-dry grass and powdery dust gilting the sun-warmed summits. Even if this year proved more rainy, there would still be a period of scarcity, right around Mid Year, and then the berries would start coming in, and the mushrooms after that. Then, starchy roots, fat from the warm months of soaking up sunlight and storing it as sugar.

Undnar was his usual self on the road — no personality change there, the same loud, rude, irreverent humor: a goofy bear of a man, and as deceptively good-natured. The Dunmer, for his part, eased off his sardonic, growled half-threats after that moment in the tavern, when something had passed between them over the map. Or before that, maybe, when Vera saw his snarling for what it was, and he saw her noticing — recognition mirrored back, as if, in that moment, the languages their respective lives had left them with converged into some shared meaning. Demon Chops was abrasive — but he wasn't stupid. Or unobservant.

Either way, whatever was growing there instead wasn't comfortable — Vera made sure she never had her back turned to either of the men — but it had settled into a kind of grudging camaraderie born of tired feet and shared fires. A pinched feeling, sore and almost sweet, that tugged at some long-buried heartstring. Familiar. Like plugging herself into a well-oiled mechanism. Once upon a time, Vera had been a part of something just like it — bigger, when everyone was still alive. Split City was held together through circuits of constant migration, on a kind of rotating schedule of flight and foraging. A careful choreography of divided tasks, once there was enough of them to share the labor. A long time ago, the cities of her world had been sedentary — before ending up in Markarth, Vera couldn't have imagined it. How would you survive? Resources were always thin, but after the Citadel raided them in '89, there was barely anything left to scavenge, so you had to stay on the move.

Jules had broached the topic first, or maybe Said — the memory had grown fuzzy around the edges, like a heat mirage. Not that it mattered. They talked about heading east, going towards what had once been Lake Huron. Used to be cottage country, Jules had explained — his great-great grandparents were from those parts. Boats and farms and quaint little houses, most of them decomposing ruins, but no gangs — or, well, fewer anyway. Martha and Vera had been hesitant. Said had thrown his support behind Jules — and not just because he and Jules were lovers, either. Said, soft-eyed, with the scar across his mouth like a fishhook — the strategist of their group. Two steps ahead, just quieter about it.

Dima had been against it, categorically, but, in the end, he was outnumbered.

It was ironic, in the end, which of them ended up implementing the plan. For several years, it was just a hypothetical — something that tied their group together as much as their other bonds did. A joint cause, the imaginary of a possible future.

Vera shoved her hungry ghosts aside, turned her face to the sky, the setting sun warm on her skin. The breeze carried the tang of warm juniper and the crisp coolness of snowmelt. A lovely smell. Point was, it had been easy to fall into a rhythm with her two oddball companions.

Which was probably why she had allowed her guard to slip.

"No! Absolutely... No." Vera stared in horror at the pieces of armor (the term was a vast overstatement) that Undnar was carefully laying out on the grass in front of her. It had taken them about a week to get to their intended destination — largely without a hitch. She should have known something like this would happen. It had all proceeded way too smoothly. Her eyes darted to Teldryn, not that she expected to find much support from those quarters. The Dunmer was pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of someone who grasped fully the futility of trying to dissuade the mad Nord from his chosen course of action.

"I am not putting this on, Undnar. No. No no no. I mean... why?"

"What do you mean, why, lass? I thought it was obvious. We need that sword. The Forsworn have said sword in their possession. There is... How many, Teldryn?"

"Twenty six, the last time I coun-"

"Twenty six Forsworn, and three of us. Surely, you can see how that's a problem."

Vera glared at him mutely, before gesturing with both hands at the armor. "Actually, there are twenty six Forsworn and two of you — since I'm not going. And I definitely don't see how this outfit here will solve the mathematical challenge you're facing."

Undnar grinned like a hungry troll spotting a ram. "Way I figure it, same rules apply, lass. You don't have to come anywhere near the encampment proper. All we need is to get past the sentries — so they don't turn us into target practice before we've even set foot into the camp. Which is where you come in, Snowberry. You're going to sneak us in. Time to earn your keep, eh?"

Vera tried — and failed — not to sputter in entirely justified outrage. Undnar patted the armor on the ground. "As your prisoners."

She opened her mouth, and then closed it with an audible clack. "I." She gestured to herself, in case the referent was unclear. "Took you." She gestured at Undnar, and then, belatedly, included Demon Chops. "As prisoners."

"Forsworn women are very fierce, I hear. Savage! Feral, even. Deadly opponents in combat."

"Setting aside the fact that I am not going anywhere, I am not a Forsworn woman! They'll be able to spot the subterfuge a mile away. I don't move like them, I don't speak like them… do you seriously think they won't be able to tell?"

Undnar shrugged, not the least bit discouraged. "You're Breton. Put on the outfit, add a bit of face paint to make you look fiercer..."

"Nord, you are almost twice my size, and probably about three times my weight. And he-" She pointed an angry finger at Sero, who wasn't doing shit to stop this disaster from toddling off a cliff "-looks like he could filet me in his sleep."

Demon Chops offered her a slight bow. "I would make sure I was awake for the occasion, if that helps."

Asshole.

Undnar scratched his head, meditating on this unexpected hurdle. "You might have a point there, Snowberry. We'll have to really make sure the face paint is convincing. Teldryn'll help you with that, eh?"

The merc had the decency to groan. "I don't recall 'face painting' being part of my contract with you, Undnar."

"You hear this, Snowberry?" Undnar rubbed his beard in aggrieved contemplation. "See what I must contend with? This lout gets to muck around in mud or ash or whatever it is those Forsworn use to decorate themselves with, and then he gets to put his grubby paws all over a pretty Breton lass, but nooo, not good enough, he wants me to pay him extra for it."

"As a matter of fact," Sero interjected, "I don't recall my 'grubby paws' being included in your new associate's contract either." He turned to Vera, his red eyes glinting in the semidarkness. "If you want my advice, outlander, I suggest we both ask for more gold. We could... split it later, if you're interested."

"Divines, lo this treachery, they are uniting against me, the unconscionable scoundrels," Undnar wailed at the night sky, brandishing both hands as if to call upon them the wrath of heaven.

"Be quiet, you madman!" Vera shushed at him aggressively. "You're going to bring the Forsworn down upon us." How had she gotten herself into this mess — and this completely insane conversation? Why was she even discussing the armor? Nothing remotely like this was part of her original agreement with the Nord, though Undnar seemed to have a fondness for reinterpreting the terms of a contract in new and creative ways. Still. If these two wanted to charge a Forsworn camp all by their lonesome and become the hagravens' playthings, that was certainly not Vera's responsibility. She promised to wait a day — and she'd keep the promise — but anything else was not going to be her problem.

Except, of course, it didn't quite work that way in practice. Twenty fucking six to two wasn't just terrible odds, it was a suicide mission. They weren't walking out of there. Minimally, bickering in circles was delaying the inevitable.

"If we don't make it out, lass, then I can't pay you your full amount, on account of being dead, and all that," Undnar tried, approaching the problem from the now very familiar pecuniary direction. "Ah! I've got it!" He slapped his knee in time with the new — no doubt incrementally worse — idea. "You didn't best us in fair combat! Cunning and treacherous snake that you Forsworn women are, you overcame us with your feminine wiles."

Vera blinked. "What, both?"

"Well, not at the same time!" the mad Nord amended, before turning to Sero with an inquisitive look. "Right? Or at the same time?"

The Dunmer rubbed his forehead, with the air of someone trying to ward off a migraine, and growled something about Mephala. "I don't care how much you're paying me, Undnar, I'm not answering that."

"Bah." The Nord grinned. "Spoilsport. Look, lass. If they see our hands are bound, it won't matter — they're not gonna ask the hows and the whysand the how comes. You just need to march us in there like you mean it, and then we'll take care of the rest." He squinted slyly. "I'll raise your pay. Three hundred septims on the other end. How about it?"

"Still no." She crossed her arms over her chest, as if that could protect her from the Nord's unbelievable pushiness and harebrained ideas.

"Four hundred."

Sero coughed into his fist.

"Yeah, and once the Forsworn resurrect my corpse, it can go shamble off and put that coin to good use by erecting a shrine to my stupidity! No fucking way. No, Undnar." Vera took a deep breath. "Why don't you two don a disguise then? Just…" She pointed her chin at the obnoxious piece of armor. "Wherever you found this set — and don't tell me, because I don't want to know — I'm sure you could've lifted another one off a male Forsworn."

Undnar heaved a despondent sigh — the sort of sigh that was meant to demonstrate how much of a paragon of patience he was being. "Well, lass, they're mostly Breton. No offense, but you lot are itty bitty." He demonstrated just how itty bitty Bretons were by holding his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, squinting at it with one eye. "Besides, that armor doesn't cover much, if you catch my meaning. I'm just too big and he's-" he squinted, "- too blue. Or grey. Which is it, Sero?"

"It's irrelevant, for starters." The Dunmer wrapped an oilcloth around the whetstone he had been using to hone his blade, and shoved the bundle into the pack at his feet. "We are wasting time. As I recall, the deal took us only as far as the bottom of the path." He pointed the business end of his blade at Vera, the dark, intricately carved metal catching the firelight. "She made good on that."

"There is a long fissure, atop the plateau, about sixty paces south of where you'll come up. I've never used it myself, but you can see if from that cliff on the other side of the river." Vera pointed her thumb over he shoulder. "It'll give you cover until the towers."

Teldryn met her gaze, and nodded. "My thanks." A trace of a smile touched his lip, the tracework of his tattoo drawing her attention to the asymmetry of his smirk. There was a kind of spare minimalism to him, now that her eyes had gotten used to his odd, high contrast coloring — not so much arresting, anymore, as almost... peaceful. The sort of aesthetics that didn't clamor for your constant attention with being insistently pretty.

Vera dragged her gaze from the Dunmer and returned the bow she had set aside earlier in favor of trying to wave the horrid armor away back into her lap. It was already restrung, so she busied herself with rubbing tallow into the wood to keep it waterproof. Not a task that needed to be done right this moment, but it would have to be done eventually anyway.

She was drawing this out. Stupid. Just… rip off the band-aid.

Another theatrical sigh from the buffoon-in-chief. "You're really not going to help us, lass?"

"No." She looked up, trying to break through the Nord's clowning to whatever was beneath it. "Look, it's an unnecessary risk. It makes no strategic sense. Yeah, it's flashy — and marginally clever if you can pull it off, maybe, but I'm telling you, we won't pull it off. They'll know I'm not one of them the same way I'd know you two are not from the Reach even if I didn't know you from Adam."

"Who is this Adam you speak of, lass?"

Vera waved it off. "A prat, from what I hear. It's not the point — I won't improve your chances by irritating the Forsworn with costuming. Just... Either way, it's not a good idea. Can't you find another sword? There's not, exactly, a deficit, from what I can tell."

Undnar shook his head. "Wish that we could, but no. It has to be this one. Well..." He stretched, and then placed his axe ceremoniously on the ground before him, giving the weapon a few loving pats. "Since you think we're as good as dead, Sero and I, won't you do an old dying warrior a final favor, and at least try the outfit?"

Vera threw a pebble at his head, which Undnar dodged. "I'm not here to fulfill sordid Nord fantasies about mountain savages!"

"What about sordid Dunmer fantasies?" Will those do you better?" The Nord turned to the merc. "Want to share one of those, before we go?"

"Not for all the gold in Skyrim."

"What happened to your sense of humor, you joyless mudcrab?"

"Unless you think I can dispatch the Forsworn with barbs, I suggest we get going. It'll be dawn soon. I'd rather not tangle with them in broad daylight."

The demented Nord switched tactics again, drawing himself up and bristling with false outrage. "What of our other arrangement, lass? Would you abandon your future husband in his time of need? I demand deference from my bride-to-be." He pounded his fist on his knee.

"Yeah, well, as your future widow, I suggest you take your demands and shove them, unless you want to first bequeath all your possessions to me. In written form."

The Dunmer emitted a sound that sounded suspiciously like a choked snort. When Vera glanced his way, he was shaking his head, his hand over his eyes.

"Well." Undnar scratched his beard in thought. "Hmm. You got a point there."

Idiots. Vera sighed, glanced at the Dunmer, and motioned at his tobacco pouch. "Roll me one, will you?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "I didn't realize you smoked. This might be a titch… strong."

"I'll survive."

"As you wish."

She wasn't sure what he was using in lieu of paper — some very thin, gossamer-like material that put her in mind of dragonfly wings, but more supple. Or perhaps the gills of a mushroom. She found her gaze lingering on him when he was sealing the roll-up — a quick swipe of his tongue, efficient, then a practiced flick of his fingers as he tightened the cigarette. He caught her looking — and smirked. "Light?" Vera drew back as a tiny flame swelled between his thumb and forefinger. She lit up awkwardly, drew the smoke deep into her lungs, rolling it around her mouth before blowing it out through her nose. The mixture was smooth, a bit minty. Whatever the active ingredient was, it wasn't nicotine — some other chemical, sharper, with a faster edge. "Any final directions from either of you?"

The Nord's ribald mask was flaking off quickly, revealing the alarming glint of nascent battle fury. "As a matter of fact..." Vera watched him warily as he unhooked the amulet from around his neck, before tossing it in her lap. "Hold on to that until I'm back, will you? It's meant for a very special lady. Wouldn't want the hagravens to get the wrong idea."

The thing was, they probably were going to die, all things considered. She ignored the sudden pang of sadness. "What about you, Dunmer? Last directives?"

His eyes drifted to the skies, and then he grinned, all sharp edges and white teeth, and crooked a finger at her. "How about a... personal question? Won't matter if we don't make it, will it?"

Undnar scowled, pantomiming displeasure. "Paws to yourself, sellsword. I don't pay you for that."

"Oh, now he worries about the terms."

Vera scooted closer to where Demon Chops was sitting. He hadn't been particularly interested in personal details before, which suited her perfectly fine — except that now, she was curious. He leaned down, close enough that she could feel his breath tickling her ear. He smelled like he looked — a sharp, slightly spicy scent, with a hint of mineral heat. Abrupt, but not unpleasant.

"Well?" Vera asked, suddenly acutely aware of her own skin.

"Where are you really from, outlander?" he whispered, and then he straightened and busied himself with his blade.

Vera got to her feet, turned away to look at the dark water of the river. Some large nocturnal bird flew above, briefly shading Masser's pale glow with its wingspan. "If you come back alive, I'll tell you," she said to the water.

A safe bet.

She didn't watch them leave, busying herself with tending to the fire instead.


	5. Chapter 5

_In which Vera has a conversation with a mudcrab, and goes for a swim against her will_

* * *

Vera maintained the campfire for only as long as it took to keep their things from accumulating too much moisture when the temperature dropped below the dew point. Cold drifted off the water, pooling at the bottom of the steep river gorge — the sun would not reach into the ravine for two, three hours after sunrise, but the inconvenience of needing to dry everything out paled against the risk of having the smoke bring unwanted visitors.

When the eastern horizon paled and the stars turned translucent, Vera kicked what remained of the burning driftwood apart, scattering the embers. If things went poorly for Undnar and Sero — especially if they went poorly early on — chances of a Forsworn scouting party to root out their base camp was high. She had chosen a spot far enough away, and inconvenient enough to access without making a ruckus, but the risk was not null. She looked up, her eyes tracing the scatter of the Mage, still bright against the shrinking darkness in the western quadrant. Perhaps she should have tried harder to dissuade them. Then again, everyone was free to choose their own ending, if they could — and most didn't get that luxury.

True enough of the Nord, but had Demon Chops really chosen this?

Was the promise of coin really worth that risk? How the hell did he balance those scales? Something irked her, an irritating little splinter of a thought, lodged at the back of her mind ever since her quip about Dunmer funeral rights — the way his mouth had twisted and his eyes had darted away at her question. Odd for a fellow who, at other times, had no problem with weaponizing eye contact. "Won't matter a whit, at this stage," he'd said.

Nords, at least, cared deeply about their afterlives — whatever Sovnegarde really was, its promise seemed to override the fear of a messy death. Were Dunmer different in this respect? Barring unnatural causes — like, say, being sacrificed in some unpleasant hagraven ritual, and then eaten, because why waste good meat — Mer had longer lifespans. Perhaps, after a while, you just got fed up with the whole thing.

Vera kicked the thought aside, and got herself busy. She was going to need sleep — a few hours would do, and she was used to finding ways to rest in relative safely without relying on a sentry. She had chosen this spot in part because of the beehive of small caves dotting the cliff side, where water erosion and winds had eaten away at the rock, forming shallow hollows — high enough above ground to keep skeevers and other wildlife from getting into food supplies, low enough that they could be accessed without climbing equipment. About fifty paces upriver along the stony beach, she discovered what she was looking for — a small cave, two meters deep, shaped like a teardrop. The rocks below provided decent handholds, and Vera hoisted herself up to the mouth of the hollow, careful not to slip on the moist stones. Inside, an old bird's nest — little more than a snarl of dry twigs and desiccated grass — was the only trace of the cave's former occupants. Vera brushed the debris aside, shouldered her pack into the opening, and climbed down. It was high enough that dragging their equipment into her new shelter would require some maneuvering, but a short craggy tree growing from a crevice above the cave would provide the lever she needed for her rope.

By the time she was done, the sky had turned a soft pink, and Masser hung pale and ghostly at the edge of the horizon. Vera settled inside the cave, her back against her pack, the pile of bedrolls cushioning her from the ground. She fidgeted with the unfinished cigarette in her fingers — she had not intended to keep the remaining blunt after her first lungful of the foreign mixture, but old habits of frugality died hard. Hoarding elevated to a philosophy of life, a shield against uncertain futures.

She sorely needed sleep, but she felt restless and strangely unmoored. Perhaps the futility of waiting was starting to grate.

Then again, perhaps the pair were going to come to their senses once they realized what they were up against, and hightail it back. Probably with a pack of Forsworn on their heels. Vera fidgeted, her hand drawn to her bow, its smooth curve reassuring against her palm. Boredom. The most underrated emotion. Boredom meant you were safe.

What did she even know about the Forsworn? Her understanding was mostly limited to observation from afar, rather than any sort of conceptual grasp of their place in the mess that was Skyrim politics. They were native Reachmen, according to Lovinar, and Breton in designation if not quite in phenotype or descent. About fifteen years before Vera's arrival, they had rebelled — and were driven back. Since then, they were known to masquerade in plain sight: your neighbor, your fellow miner, your nondescript customer that came in every Sundas to buy a health tonic (otherwise known as a cordial in every sense of the term, but Bothela's clever labels spared her clients from having to explain their more frivolous purchases to their significant others) could have a double life as a Forsworn — or so people said, a little breathless with the pleasure of suspected conspiracy. In that sense, perhaps they were Breton in the way that the largest rival gangs that tore Split City into two violent, mutually annihilating halves were sometimes described as "American." At best, ironic nostalgia — a referent for a myriad identities only united on old maps, as mythical as the giant sea dwellers of terra incognita. At worst, a way to make one's own hands feel less bloody, to shift that weight to others, with longer and prouder and better remembered traditions of past cruelties.

There was the more sinister sense, too. Whispers of warriors who cut out their own hearts to be replaced with something that was neither heart, nor human. Stories of hagravens that had bartered some of their humanity for odd powers that came with bird talons and a few other dubious trade-offs, but no wings.

Beyond that, Vera only knew the surfaces of what she had been able to glimpse from a safe distance. They wore little, but didn't seem to be bothered by the cold, either from a habit of repeated exposure or through some magical or alchemical intervention. They did not favor metalwork for weapons or armor. They had some kind of symbolic relationship with stags, and the men's headdresses often featured a complex weave of antlers and branches, like some ancient woodland spirit from the 3rd Volume of the Encyclopedias about the old religions of her dying world — before the Unworshipped showed up and swept up those who remained into their deceptively simple, impossible service.

So her grim jokes aside, the thought of what would actually happen to the Nord and the Dunmer once they failed — and Vera had no doubt that they would fail — was all the more unpleasant for its uncertainties. This would have been a good time for her imagination to draw a blank — or at least a modesty curtain over the possible scenarios — but, of course, it did no such thing.

If they were lucky, they would die quickly. But that was the thing with luck — you had it until it ran out.

She had promised to wait. A long, pointless, and potentially risky exercise — but a promise was a promise.

Eventually, she nodded off.

Vera woke up with a jolt. An odd noise had yanked her out of shallow sleep — well, that, and the crick in her neck. The sun's orange rays danced on the water, the river like molten gold.

She'd overslept. Again. Vera tightened her hand on her bow and turned her head — slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself — and almost tumbled off her pile of bedrolls.

A purple blob was gliding across the narrow strip of gravel beach — a coiling, pulsing iridescent knot of ethereal tendrils, like vapor slowly coiling on itself inside a glass flask. Vera blinked. No changes. She turned her head all the way, and, suddenly, the light dissolved, like something smudged out with a grubby thumb. In its place stood a mudcrab — a juvenile hatchling, judging by the size. Its eye stalks stretched upward, beady little eyes tracking Vera's movements. It chirped in warning and skittered backwards.

What the fuck? Vera turned her head, bringing the critter into her peripheral vision. The mudcrab reblobbified, its outline now hosting the violet glow once again. The shimmer was familiar — exactly like the tantalizingly glimmer of Lovinar's gem.

"Did you swallow one of those enchantment crystals, buddy?"

The mudcrab chittered menacingly.

"Oh, yeah? You're pretty much a rat in a chitin suit, so don't get mouthy." Vera twisted out of the cave, dangling her legs over the drop. She stretched her neck, the muscles screaming in protest.

The mudcrab raised its claw and brandished it at Vera. Have weapon, will nip. The gesture was so similar to Undnar's earlier quip about itty bitty Bretons that Vera found herself snorting. "Not impressed, huh?" She jumped down from her perch, her fur-soled boots doing little to muffle the rattle of river pebbles beneath her feet. "Let's see if you've been keeping an odd diet." She took a step forward. "And if not, I bet you'll taste great with some wild garlic and a bit of butter."

The mudcrab inched sideways, its gray carapace catching the sun's refracted glare.

Vera stalked closer. She wouldn't need the bow — for a specimen this young, a well-placed kick to the head should do the trick. As long as she could dodge the claw — the little critters were experts at ruining a perfectly good pair of boots.

Apparently, this particular mudcrab was wisened to the cruel ways of the food chain, because it retracted its pincer and took off, lightning fast, zipping sideways along the bank, its legs clicking against the stones. After a moment of hesitation, Vera ran after it, following it upriver. The purple glow only returned if she kept the creature in her peripheral vision.

Just as she was closing in on it, the treacherous crustacean lurched sideways, disappearing behind a rocky outcrop that jutted out into the river, and forcing Vera to slow down at the water's edge. She weighed the advantage of a crabmeat supper against the dubious pleasure of wading ankle-deep in the icy river. But if the little scavenger had, in fact, gobbled up one of those gems — because what else could explain its glowing tendencies — then cold feet wouldn't be such a high price to pay. Still. Keeping one's boots dry and one's feet warm was another one of those underrated life necessities. Vera eyed the rocky jut. "You might have eight legs , buddy, but see, this is where you're not taking into account the simple evolutionary fact that I have opposable thumbs."

Midway up the outcrop, Vera frowned, staring in consternation at the small fissure in the stone she was using as a handhold. She was talking to a mudcrab. It felt perfectly natural under the circumstances — who else was she supposed to talk to out here? — but something about it still irked her. A feeling like she was missing something crucial, and rather obvious.

A noise drew her attention from the irritating thought, and she clambered up the rest of the way until she reached the narrow platform at the top of the rocky spur. On the other side of the stony outcrop formation, a narrow tongue of pebbly shore extended out into the water. Her mudcrab friend was making its way across it at a deceptively leisurely pace, but Vera's earlier culinary intentions slipped away. She muttered a curse. The entire river bank was littered with swirling purple knots.

Either the local mudcrabs were experimenting with a restricted mineral diet, or something was very seriously wrong with her. Vera rubbed her eyes, but the visual distortion remained.

She folded herself into a cross-legged position, bringing the bow to her lap. A titch strong, the Dunmer had warned her when she had asked him to share his smoking mixture. What the hell had she been thinking, making that stupid request in the first place? Idiot. More importantly, was the effect something specific to mudcrabs, or was it more general? She glanced dubiously at her own hands. They seemed perfectly normal — no eerie glow.

Hopefully, whatever chemical was causing the lightshow, it wasn't permanent. She would bring the roll-up to Bothela, and see if the old woman could reverse engineer the ingredients.

Vera turned her gaze back to the chittering critters below. Something had drawn the little bastards to a spot at the edge of a shallow pool, where the current slowed and swirled. An old rowboat had been dragged part way onto the beach, but the mudcrabs didn't seem interested in that — they were all clustering a few feet away, around a dark shape bobbing in the water.

Mudcrabs were, by and large, opportunistic scavengers — which meant that the shape was most likely a dead body.

Vera straightened, fished out an arrow from the quiver at her hip, and drew her bow, aiming at the largest creature. She released the arrow — the string ringing with a satisfying twang — and the mudcrab shuddered, collapsed on its belly, and went still. Its buddies hissed and whistled — but didn't stop their meal.

"Shoo, you fuckers, I don't want your dinner. I just want the boat."

She dispatched two more mudcrabs before the rest of the throng abandoned their prey, launching themselves into the water, or skittering along the gravel towards the shelter of the cliffs. Vera climbed down.

The stench of decomposition — still faint, but unmistakable — hit her nostrils once she was a few feet away from the boat. Vera glanced at the dead body. A bloated back, covered in the reds and browns of imperial armor, swayed gently with the ebb and flow.

She approached the dinghy. Several burlap sacks lay eviscerated at the bottom of the boat, their cargo of wheat and potatoes strewn over the weather-bleached planks, but the little vessel was otherwise dry on the inside.

The mudcrabs were beginning to coalesce into an irate militia some twenty paces away, so Vera planted her palms on the hull and shoved. Her feet weren't destined to stay dry, apparently. She waded through the shallows, teeth clenched against the bracingly cold water sipping into her boots. Another shove, and the dinghy wobbled, the current rotating the bow to face downriver. She tried the rudder, a creaky but function affair, and as the current yanked the skiff forward, she hoisted herself into it, inelegantly, her boots slipping on the damp wood. She narrowly avoided pitching forward and busting her nose on the planks, but then she righted herself, and steered the craft along the shoreline to the site of their erstwhile camp. If shit hit the fan and Undnar's insane scheme brought a party of Forwsorn down on her head, she'd have a quick means of escape — as long as she managed to beach the skiff before the rapids, and scat.

Vera whiled away the remaining hours cleaning out the dinghy and checking it for leaks, collecting river clams for her dinner, and attempting, unsuccessfully, to dry out her boots in the waning sunlight until the sun dipped behind the cliffs. She weighed the risks of a campfire against the allure of having dry toes and a cooked dinner. If the Forsworn hadn't showed up by now, perhaps they weren't going to bother at all. In the end, the promise of modest creature comforts prevailed, so she made a small driftwood fire in the shelter of the cliffs. An evening wind had picked up, scattering the narrow plume of smoke over the water.

By the time Masser climbed once more above the eastern horizon, and the sky turned from lapis blue to inky black, Vera was thoroughly fed up with pointless waiting. This was it. They were't coming back. She chose to interpret the queasy, hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach as hunger, rather than loss.

She used a stick to maneuver her clams and coal-baked potatoes out of the cinders — most of the potatoes from the dinghy had either rotted, or sprouted, but she found a couple that still looked (and smelled) edible. Either way, she'd eaten worse. Since her relocation to her new world, the chronic vitamin deficiencies she and everyone she knew had suffered from were beginning to right themselves. She'd been lucky, compared to others — she had managed to keep all her teeth, at least. She scarfed down her food, counting down every chew. Ten per bite. Trying to re-teach herself to eat more slowly was still a struggle.

She cast her eyes towards the cliffs above. Perhaps she could climb up there and take one final look. The Forwsworn camp was a hike, but, if nothing else, it would be an expedient way to test whether the effect of the Dunmer's smoking mixture extended to humans — as well as to gauge the distance of its efficacy. And if the camp turned out to be quiet, then that would mean that her companions were well and truly dead — or worse — and she could load up the dinghy and head out. She'd dock by Blind Cliff Cave, before the rapids, and cut across to Karthwasten — and from there, she might be able to hitch a ride back to Markarth if Ainethach was feeling generous. Besides, she should probably bring the news of Lovinar's passing — the old alchemist had supplied the little settlement with healing potions, when communication with Markarth slowed down during the winter months. The miners were probably wondering what had happened.

At least don't bullshit yourself, Vee. You just hate leaving them behind. There's no helping it now — shuould've talked them out of it when you had the chance.

Why did her saner self always sound like Martha?

Vera got to her feet, the adrenaline sharpening her senses. She looked at the sky. Masser was already dipping behind the cliffs. She had fulfilled her part of the bargain. She was free to go.

Sorry, Martha, love. Of the two of us, you were always the wiser one.

She fished out the roll-up from her pocket, pinched off the burnt end, and brought the burning tip of a stick to the flaking remainder. One fast inhalation, released quickly, and then she extinguished the blunt against the sole of her boot (still wet), stuffing it back into her pocket. Hopefully, Bothela would have some additional insights about the mixture. Either way, waste not and...

The thought scattered. The screech — high pitched, metallic, and entirely inhuman — sent her scrambling for her bow before her mind could classify the nature of the danger. She dove for the safety of the cliffs.

Boots sliding on gravel, small stones tumbling down and ricocheting off rocks. A low, mounting whump, like a bomb falling, and then a crash and the bassy whoosh of fire. Vera gritted her teeth against the sickly free-fall of rising panic. The bow felt slippery in her palm. An arrow nocked against the rising terror. She forced herself out of her shelter through sheer force of will, her body pivoting on autopilot towards the approaching ruckus.

Two lilac blobs, one bright and one faint, so close together they looked joined at the hip, were tumbling down the narrow path from the clifftop. And dotting the dark outline of the cliffs and blotting out the starlight, were at least another dozen of purple blobs, pulsing in perfect harmony. Vera gulped for air suddenly in short supply. Don't think. There. One more, against Masser's tawny flank, purple, but tinged with red and rimmed with a necrotic darkness that brought bile to her throat. A perfect ball of flame coalesced in the center of the shimmering mass of tendrils, feeding off the purple glimmer as if it were kindling.

She lined the shot: an odd, uncomfortable proposition when relying only on her peripheral vision to take aim. The honing glow vanished the second she tried to look at a target head-on, leaving only darkness in its wake. She let go of the arrow. The bowstring twanged, air whistling, and then a meaty thwack followed, another inhuman screech on its tail.

"Get out of here, outlander!"

The Dunmer.

Something grazed Vera's calf — blinding white pain, then numbness — and she stumbled back, her only thought on the dinghy. Get it moving! She hobbled to the boat, tossing her bow inside. "Hurry!" she screamed over her shoulder, strident, with the metallic tang of fear on her tongue.

A serrated arrow bit into the skiff's hull, not a foot away from her hand.

""Help me get him in!"

She whipped around. Sero was barely recognizable. Blood and bruises and burns, one eye swollen shut to a narrow red slit. The Nord he was half-hauling half-supporting looked like a slab of meat.

Don't think. She grabbed Undnar's belt and helped the Dunmer heave his employer into the dinghy like a sack of potatoes. "Push!"

They shoved at the hull together. A fireball flew over their heads and skittered across the dark surface, pale steam billowing in its wake. Vera grabbed the edge of the skiff. The boat wobbled, and then the current caught it, yanking her after it, the water shockingly cold even through her armor. She bit her cheek and tried to dig in her heels. Sero tumbled into the dinghy, rocking it and knocking it sideways to the current. Vera pushed again, her breaths coming in short gasps. One more push, something grabbing her by the back of her coat, and then she was dragged into the skiff. She fell in a heap next to the unresponsive Nord.

"Can you steer us to safety?" Sero's voice sounded strained, edged with urgency.

"Keep them off us," Vera managed through chattering teeth. She crawled to the rudder, yanking it towards her. The boat righted itself, the fast current propelling it downriver. She chanced a look at the cliffs. The purple distortions had faded — she couldn't see whether they were being pursued. On the starboard side, the Dunmer's face and hands flashed into view, flame-lit — the ball of fire small at first, barely a flicker, then growing brighter and hotter, the core pulsing white. He grew it in increments, molding fire between his palms, like shaping a piece of dough, his battered features twisting with the effort. Vera winced. Holy hell, but they had done a number on him. He held the spell aloft, squinting into the darkness, and then he released it. It went flying down the gorge, the rocks illuminated in time with the missile's passage. Vera didn't check to see if it hit anything. The cliffs rushed by, the river bending around the island. She glanced behind them, trying to catch that purple glow again. At least she got the answer to her question — the effect wasn't specific to mudcrabs.

The boat rushed on, and with each passing minute, the itchy feeling between her shoulder blades receded a little, as if the target on her back grew fainter.

Maybe they would make it out of this. There would be a nasty patch of underwater boulders right around the bend, then relatively smooth sailing before the rapids. The skiff wouldn't survive those, not with three people weighing it down, not to mention their gear, but if they could just-

The Nord suddenly shot bolt-upright and bellowed an ear-curling curse. The boat lurched to the side, taking water. Vera threw herself to the other side in counterweight, trying to right the craft, but Undnar wobbled, trying to keep, his balance, before collapsing in the same direction. The last thing she heard before tumbling head first into the river was Sero's hissed expletive — something about Molag Bal's hairy nether regions.

She hit the water with a painful jolt, the cold like a sudden vise of icy fire tightening around her lungs. Vera groped for the boat's edge, but her waterlogged armor dragged her back, her muscles shaking with the effort of staying afloat. Her feet tried to find purchase, but the river was too deep. The boat, now at the mercy of the current, rushed forward. Another fireball — not one of Sero's, so return fire, most likely — sank and fizzled inches away from her head. Vera screamed and went under. Her lungs seized, the thermal shock locking her muscles. She panicked, disoriented in the darkness, tried to kick to the surface, but her legs felt bound and unwieldy. Water rushed into her mouth and nose, the pain and sheer terror crowding out everything else. She kicked with all her force, breaching the surface and gulping a mouthful of air before being tugged under again. Her left shin slammed against an underwater rock, the agony momentarily overriding her panic, and then she was dragged over it, like laundry scraped over a washboard. Then open water again, with no sense of direction, of up and down.

That's it. That's how it ends. Her vision went blurry, fading at the edges, tunneling.

She must have blacked out. Awareness returned with a lurch and the sensation of her back hitting solid ground. Vera found enough energy to roll to her side and retch into the shallow water, cramps twisting her insides in long, painful spasms. When nothing else would come out, she fell back, shaking with exhaustion, shock, and hypothermia.

Above her, the Dunmer's face loomed into view. "Done?" He hoisted her up by the armpits and dragged her farther up the river bank with a labored grunt.

"Ar- mor-..." Vera rattled, "freezing...Off."

He nodded, stopped dragging, stepped over her, and busied himself with removing her gear. She tried to aid him in the process, but her fingers weren't obeying.

"Gone?" Vera managed through chattering teeth.

"Safe for the moment. Though I have no idea where we are." The Dunmer fumbled with the laces holding her trousers in place, then tried to yank at them, but the wet knots had fused tight. He growled in frustration. Something about his expression suddenly struck Vera as utterly comical — a half-forgotten memory from her younger years, of an impatient lover brought low by the intricacies of female garments. Even then, a good bra was already something you might draw your weapon over. She snorted, and then spluttered, water trickling from her nose and sending her down the path of uncontrollable laughter, despite her raw lungs. Demon Chops stared down at her in mute condemnation, wiping at the blood trickling from his broken lip — the scab was cracked, and the wound seeped. "Something amusing, outlander?"

"You look like-" hiccup "-first time you're thwarted by-" hiccup-snort "-a woman's choice of wardrobe," Vera choked out, a great howl of laughter bursting from her chest before curdling into a cough.

"Next time the day concludes with you asking me to remove your clothes, I'll strive to be better prepared," he retorted dryly, "though I might have enough magic left to burn them off you, if you'd rather."

"Bad day?" Vera managed, cold and laughter and the aftershocks of terror rattling through her in equal measure.

"Not the worst ending to it, I suppose." He met her gaze, his expression more grimace than grin. "Azura curse it, this won't budge... You're no use to us frozen, partner, so if you have any suggestions..."

"Just stop fucking around and burn the laces off!"

He cocked an eyebrow, the attempt at irony somewhat spoiled by his pained wince. "Try to hold still, then. You won't be much use to me cooked either."

A burst of heat from his hands — Vera tried not to arch her frozen body into his palms in a misguided attempt to chase the warmth. Water sizzled, vapor billowing around them in a milky cloud.

"I don't suppose you can just dry the armor?"

The Dunmer shook his head. "Not enough magic left for that." Another burst of heat — she groaned in relief as he peeled off the rest of her waterlogged leathers.

The cold night air hit the soggy fabric of her undergarments, and she shivered, the tremor settling in once again. "Campfire?" She almost bit her tongue trying to get the word out.

"I'd recommend against it."

Vera growled a monosyllabic curse, and hugged her knees to her chest. Yes, yes, he runs hot. Not a good reason to crawl into his lap. Get yourself together, you dumbass. "Is any of our equipment dry?"

"What's left of it is soaked through and through, I'm afraid."

"What do you mean, 'what's left of it?'"

Sero shrugged. Vera noticed that he had shed his armor, and the colorless linen shirt he wore looked dry. He didn't seem to suffer from the cold, either. "When you fell overboard, it seemed wiser to retrieve you. I sent the boat to shore as best I could by jamming the rudder. I hadn't anticipated the rocks, however."

Vera tightened her arms around herself. "I don't suppose you found a bow floating around, did you?" This time, there was nothing ambiguous about her feeling of loss.

"Your weapon is by the remaining bedroll. No idea what happened to your quiver. The packs sank to the bottom, I suspect — it might be possible to recover some of our things if we wait for daylight."

"So I'm guessing there's no dry clothes." This was going to be a problem — without a fire, and with the heat loss, she was unlikely to make it to sunrise. She was still clearheaded, relatively speaking — but her body felt heavy, every movement a conscious effort.

"You could always try that Forsworn armor. I'm sure Undnar would be delighted, once he wakes up."

"Please don't tell me that thing survived." Vera tried to discern the Dunmer's expression. Judging by the little smirk, Demon Chops was pulling her leg. She bit her tongue, smothering the impulse to tell him off, but her glare must have been sufficiently irate, because he offered a slightly contrite look and motioned for her to wait. His gaze turned inward, his face pinching in concentration. A faint, bluish glow tinged with orange at the periphery rose around him in a rapid swirl. He inhaled through his teeth — a sharp intake that drew both air and magic, Vera guessed — and all that remained was the faint shimmer of hot air.

"Care to warm up?" He motioned with his hand but kept his eyes averted, trained on the river. A practical offer — the awkward intimacy would be epiphenomenal.

The voice of reason cautioning her that this was one horrible idea didn't stand a chance against the categorical imperative of survival, so Vera scooted closer — and then closer still, until her back was against the Dunmer's chest. He brought his legs up, his thighs bracketing her hips, and then he leaned forward, bringing his arms around her and clasping his hands loosely over his knees. He was going to painstaking lengths not to make more contact than strictly necessary. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Vera tried to muffle the sigh of pleasure at the blissful warmth — mostly out of sympathy for Demon Chops' visible discomfort. Every line of his body was as tense as a drawn bow. Once her back began to dry, a ragged sigh escaped her lips, and the Dunmer went very still, his own breath hitching before he covered it with a cough.

"Did Undnar make it?" The last she saw of the Nord was his spectacular — and ill-fated — return to consciousness.

"Damaged, but alive. Not by his efforts, but who am I to judge? You'll find that my-... our employer is remarkably difficult to kill."

"Did you get the sword, at least?"

"We did, at that. I do hope it was worth it." The lazy drawl was back. "I doubt it was."

Vera wiggled closer, trying to get her legs dry now that her back was toasty. Sero grumbled an inarticulate curse. "Unless you'd like the flame cloak to incinerate you, I recommend you keep still."

She stifled a snort and allowed herself to sag against him, the exhaustion washing over her like a tide. "Oh, relax, will you?" He was practically thrumming with tension. "I've seen this countless times. It'll pass if you wait it out. You can't argue with your lizard brain, so don't waste the effort."

"I beg your pardon?" Demon Chops sounded distinctly acerbic.

Shit. And now, she had managed to offend him. So much for talking straight and making this less awkward. Something about lizards and dark elves? She'd read about it, but the effort of dredging up that particular historical tidbit felt insurmountable at the moment. She was warm — finally — and her eyelids suddenly felt full of sand. "Let me rephrase." She mulled it over. Surely, this wasn't his first rodeo either. "The arousal. Fight or flight or fuck. The three F-s. Judging by the state of your face, you narrowly survived something pretty unpleasant. Your body is going to cycle through instinctive responses, depending on what's available." She rubbed her eyes. "It passes, as I'm sure you know."

For a few seconds, she thought he'd bolt — or tumble down the denial path and make things even more awkward between armor you couldn't exactly argue with biological symptoms without sounding like a bigoted fool. But the Dunmer didn't argue. Instead, he exhaled through his teeth, his breath ruffling Vera's hair, and some of the tension drained from him. She felt him shrug. "Spoken from experience, I take it?" His usual irony was there, but also genuine curiosity.

"As I said." She stifled a yawn. "Pretty normal response. Just your body reminding you that you're still alive."

"Consider my memory suitably jolted, then. That being said..." He hesitated. "If we are to work together... I am not in the habit of mixing business and pleasure." It would have been convincing, too, if his arms around her hadn't tightened, his forearm brushing against the underside of her breasts.

Fuck. Vera's mouth went dry. The sweet, achy heat pooling in her lower belly had very little to do with the fire cloak magic, or whatever it was called. Hard to miss the not very subtle irony, considering her earlier lecture about the "naturalness" of this very response.

Or maybe it really was time to get a lover — someone not overly complicated, without the baggage of a demented Nord employer with suicidal tendencies. Preferably someone with the added benefits of lending protection against Markarth politics. A practical arrangement. Two pigeons, one stone and all that.

This, whatever it was, was not going to be practical in the slightest. "'Just business' works for me. Partner."

Sero chuckled a little darkly, but he didn't let go. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips inches from her ear. "Warm enough yet?"

Oh, fuck. The blasted Dunmer certainly knew how to weaponize his voice when he felt like it. Vera shook her head, chuckling despite herself. "So that's how it's gonna be. Fine. Let's pretend you won this round."

"Did I?" Beneath the sarcasm, a hidden edge, like a blade tucked into the cuff of a boot.

Nope. Not practical at all. "Warm enough. Let's see where we landed."

* * *

_Next up: Renegotiating terms (not all of them business-related)_


	6. Chapter 6

Sero allowed for the spell to wane to mildly warm, then to barely tepid, then, finally, to nothing at all. He still radiated heat — not the magical variety, just the regular difference in base body temperature — and it made Vera all the more reluctant to disentangle herself from her otherwise comfortable seating arrangement. Now that the more immediate threat of hypothermia was temporarily averted, the aftermath of her tumble in the river was beginning to catch up with her. Her ribs ached, the skin on her stomach, where she had scraped against the underwater rocks, was starting to smart, and the spot on her calf where something had hit her on the way to the dinghy throbbed like an electrical burn. An assortment of miscellaneous bruises and pulled muscles collected less memorably was also making itself known.

The Dunmer didn't seem in any particular hurry to let go of her.

She cast a glance to the skies. Another hour to sunrise. Where were they, exactly? There was that telltale dip in the cliffs across the river, a sharp drop in the shape of a W, but lopsided on the right, which meant that they were most likely a bit north of Blind Cliff Cave. It was pure luck that they hadn't gone over the rapids.

"Where is Undnar, by the way?" If Sero had gone fishing for her, the Nord must have been functional enough when the boat reached shore to get himself to safety.

"Sleeping it off on the bedroll, just-" he motioned with his head "-up there. He'll be good as new, the fetcher, give it a few hours. No need to fret about your 'betrothed.'" He shifted, settling in for the long haul. "We might as well kill time until sunrise. Not much we can do until then, anyway."

Vera snorted. "Pragmatic, aren't you."

He shrugged. "Much as I wouldn't mind watching you run around half-naked, I'd rather not keep wasting energy on the fire cloak to keep you from freezing. You won't be very effective until I have enough magic to dry out your armor."

Vera leaned back against him and craned her neck, trying to get a look at his expression. One red eye met her gaze — the other one had shut completely with the swelling. His earlier tension was gone, and he seemed more relaxed — perhaps not outright comfortable, but too exhausted and battered to bother with sudden movements, or with his usual vaguely threatening take on flirtation. She took inventory of his injuries. Large hematoma with severe edema over the left eye. He'll be lucky if the cheekbone wasn't fractured. Busted lip. Three gashes on the right side of his face that looked like claw marks, shallow, but ragged. The bottom one was oozing. A long, narrow burn over the left temple. Further down, a mottling of bruises that disappeared under the collar of his shirt. No open wounds, interestingly enough — at least none that she could see. Either he had used some of his magic to heal himself, or…

"How exactly did you manage to escape the Forsworn?" They couldn't have possibly attacked them head-on and prevailed. Besides, the Dunmer's injuries weren't consistent with battle. She swallowed. Nope. Torture was more like it.

He shifted, prodded at his lower lip, made a face, and returned his hand to where it was resting before, his fingers clasped together over his knees, his arms in a loose embrace around her ribcage. "How do you think?"

"I think you tricked them, somehow. That's how I would have gone about it, anyway — if I were stupid enough to try that kind of stunt."

What started as a chuckle ended with a none too flattering invocation of Sheogorah's beard as the Dunmer's less than optimal physical state protested his amusement. "I'm beginning to see a pattern of avoiding 'stupid stunts.' Want to tell me where you're really from, outlander? While we have some time on our hands..."

Vera forced herself to remain still, overriding the instinct to bolt. "My friends call me Vera. Or Vee. Either way, shorter than 'outlander,' saves time, that sort of thing."

"Oh, is that what we are?" He didn't move, but his tone reacquired its mocking edge. "Friends."

Damn it. It really was the voice, wasn't it? "Partners, if you prefer. Until we can get ourselves back to Markarth, I'm stuck with you two. Safety in numbers, you know how it goes."

"If it's safety you're looking for, you've made a poor choice of associates… 'Vee.'" He sounded it out, trying it for taste. "Or whoever you really are."

In the myriad of possible questions, Vera decided to opt for the most obvious one — if Demon Chops kept bringing it up, the chances of him just dropping the topic in the future seemed slim to none, so damage control might as well be done now, when his defenses were lowered. "What makes you think I'm not who I say I am?"

He kept quiet for a moment, perhaps organizing his thoughts — or perhaps just relishing the drawn out silence. A fellow with a healthy enjoyment of pregnant pauses. As far as Vera was concerned, there were worse vices. "You are new to Markarth, with no allies or wealth to help keep you afloat — so much so that you agreed to take a dubious job for the promise of coin. Not that much coin, either, if we're being truthful. From what I've seen of you so far, you move through the city like you do through the wilds. And you might look like a Breton to Undnar, but only because he's stuck on size."

Breathe. You're fine. He's not your enemy at the moment. Pick your battles. The lizard brain really wasn't very receptive to arguments. "How do I move?"

He made a vague noise, something between a chortle and a "heh." "You don't turn your back on a room. The first thing you do when you enter a closed space is to look for the exits. You eat like Oblivion itself is about to swallow your dinner." He punctuated his enumeration with little taps of his thumb against his wrist. "From what I've seen of Markarth fashion, you keep your hair too short."

Vera snorted in irritation. "Sero, I don't think we know each other well enough for you to complain about the length of my hair."

Another one of those noncommittal chuckles. "I don't recall complaining. My point is that this-" He brought his hand up, slowly, palm open — no weapons, no threat there — and rested it against the back of her head. And then he curled his fingers through the short, cropped strands, and gave a tug, firm enough to send a tingle down her spine "-couldn't be used against you. Not unless someone got close enough. Or…" another very pointed chuckle this time as he removed his hand "... if you allowed it."

Vera repressed a whole-body shudder. Oh, but the guy was trouble. Instead, she made herself shrug, ignoring the tingling and the memory of his hand in her hair and that just-so yank. "It's practical. Easier to clean. Try elbowing your way through the Markarth public baths next time you're in town."

"Are you offering a guided tour?"

Ah, this game again. "Oh, I'm sure Undnar can wash your back when he wakes up. Or is that not part of your 'business arrangement'?"

The Dunmer barked a laugh, dry and gravely — and then muttered an 'ow' followed by a few choice words — but kept cackling despite the discomfort. "It isn't. Are you asking whether the position is open?"

Vera smirked. They'd already established the terms. From there, verbiage was fair game — and he'd been on the offensive so far, so turn about and all that. "Only if it's a very industrial scrubbing. Wouldn't want to mix business and pleasure, yeah? Then again, one does need a partner to get to the... hard to reach places." She felt him shift behind her, the muscles in his forearms cording with the strain of consciously breathing through the tension. Gotcha, fucker, two can play this game. Not my first rodeo either. "Since you're curious about Markarth customs, they do have this great thing they do with juniper oil — used to be dwarven oil until Bothela finally got folks to realize it's toxic. If you can afford it, which I'm guessing you can, what with looting your way through the countryside — it's..." Vera moaned, throaty and low and dark with promise, and then she bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a snort when Demon Chops hissed and scooted backwards, putting distance between them. "There's another one that uses honey — something about the mountainous environment, I think. Sharp on the tongue at first, almost salty, but if you take it in, the sweetness hits the back of your throat... Would you rather hear about that one?"

He spat out something in Dunmeri, wiped his hands on his knees before bringing them back around, apparently utterly unwilling to concede so much as an inch. "Azura's wisdom, woman, enough." He swallowed audibly. His brogue got thicker when he was flustered. Good to know, for future reference. If this was going to be some kind of partnership — however temporary, and however misbegotten — she might as well learn his tells. "We'll pretend this round goes to you, shall we?"

"I don't think so. I won this one fair and square. We're still talking about hair remedies, right?"

He sat in silence for a moment, and then he laughed, an unguarded, self-deprecating guffaw that made their little game feel so much less game-like. And then he leaned forward, his chest flush against her back, but his arms around her remained purposefully lose. "Impressive evasive tactics, while we're on the subject." The cloak of irony was now firmly wrapped around his words. "Will we be playing a guessing game, then? If so, I have another puzzle I'd like to… unravel. Based on your reaction to me during our first meeting, you've not only never seen a Dunmer — you've barely heard of us."

"That's not-"

"Yes, yes 'filthy gray skin' and what have you — not very inventive, if you ask me. Don't get me wrong, Dunmer aren't much better when it comes to…" He made a vague motion with his hand "...the 'lesser races,' and all that hogwash. Bitter bunch. Your look of puzzled horror, though, it wasn't that. If you want to tell me I'm wrong, I'm all ears." At her lack of response, he nodded against her hair, satisfied. "Thought so. Aside from that, the Thalmor, soulless bastards that they are, frighten you half to death — oh, you hide it well, I certainly don't mean to suggest that your playing along with Undnar's marriage proposal wasn't entertaining to watch — but I don't believe you're too concerned with counting Divines and coming up short."

Clever bastard. Vera maneuvered herself to a sideways sitting position so she could catch his expressions better. "If I tell you, will you tell me what your deal is with Undnar? I don't think you're just in it for the money."

"What makes you think I'm not?"

Vera nestled closer and leaned her head against his shoulder. He tensed, but let it go. "Let's see. First." She waved her thumb. "You stand watch, and grin and bear it while your employer entertains himself with the local help, but you don't partake yourself. Based on how you dealt with that, it's not the first time, either." She unfolded her index. "Two. You don't eat when he does. You drink, out of pocket I'm guessing, but you don't share his meals — not even when we were traveling together. You wait for him to finish before you eat, or you take your meals elsewhere. In fact, you ate with me more often than with Undnar." She let her remaining fingers do the listing. "Three. You weren't exactly enthusiastic when your Nord was trying to hire me, but since you drop the cynical arsehole routine when he's out of earshot, I'm guessing 'greedy merc' is more of a professional persona. Either way, you didn't want me to take the job." She felt the Dumner's chest rise in a nascent protest, but she waved it away. "Don't bullshit, Sero. I know how this game is played. Four, you took a beating. You have no open wounds. You're bruised and scratched and burned, but it wasn't from any squirmish." She examined him critically. A reddish swelling on his collarbone caught her eye. "There. This one, you got more recently, and through armor, I'm guessing — probably when you were making a run for it. But these ones, are a bit older, and delivered directly."

He said nothing. Instead, he gazed out at the river, his face shuttered behind a neutral mask. It made his injuries look all the more stark.

"What did Undnar make you do?" she pressed.

He made an odd sound at the back of his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "Nothing that he doesn't pay me for." Terse, with something crucial sieved out. "He pays well, if you're wondering. Very well, in fact."

"That's utter bullshit." She softened it with a chuckle and brought her hand up, her thumb brushing his lower lip, careful not to reopen the scab. He winced, but didn't move away. "I don't doubt he's a man of means. Still bullshit. Let's take this part, for example. You didn't collect that busted lip during battle. You would have worn your helmet. No, you had your helmet off, and-" she squinted, letting her fingers trail along his lip to his swollen cheekbone, her touch feather-light. He didn't flinch. "Yeah. I'd bet the money Undnar owes me that this isn't from a weapon. Unarmored fist, I'd guess, or the bone would've been broken."

"Expert on injuries, are you? Are you perchance a healer, as well? Because that would be useful. Undnar really found himself a little treasure, didn't he?"

Vera frowned. Bitter rancor, plastered over sublimated rage, hidden well. An old emotion, by the sound of it. "Fuck off, Sero. I've been around the block enough times to know what this looks like. You sat there while those Forsworn rearranged your face. Tell me I'm wrong."

He huffed a humorless laugh, painstakingly avoiding eye contact, but his shoulders relaxed. "'Around the block?' Curious turn of phrase."

Shit. Watch your words, you fuckwit.

The Dunmer exploited the brief pause. "My turn, I believe?" He unclasped his fingers and brought his hand to her ribs, his palm shockingly hot against her skin. Vera froze like a rat caught in flood lights. Not much she could do about the goosebumps, damn it. He traced the line of her waist, slowly, as if counting every rib, and then relocated his hand to her leg, giving it an exploratory squeeze, his fingers prodding the muscles — until he found the cluster of nerve endings, high on her inner thigh, and pressed his thumb into it, a sharp jolt, just shy of painful. Vera jerked, but the Dunmer held her in place, his arm around her tight as a vise. "Shh." His breath tickled her ear. He rubbed slow soothing circles over the pressure point — or, really, the pressure "area" might have been more accurate. Oh, bloody hell. The achy tug in her lower belly bloomed with a vengeance, spreading south. She wondered idly what expressions he wore when he fucked. "It'll pass… if you wait it out." It took a conscious effort not to shift to bring his hand just a little higher and to the left, and... Sodding lizard brain. "Heh." The Dunmer chuckled, sounding pleased with his exploration, and moved his hand away. "On a Breton, the trigger point would be lower. I'd wager you're small because food was scarce. So, back to my question. Where are you from, outlander?"

"Expert on Breton anatomy, are you?"

He shrugged. "Tricks of the trade. I do, in fact, kill people for a living, Vee. And this round goes to me, I believe."

Oh, fucking trouble. Walking, talking trouble. "If I said 'far away,' would you drop it?"

"Not likely."

"You tell me about what your deal with Undnar is, Sero, and I'll tell you where I'm from."

He hummed in amusement. "That wasn't our arrangement, as I recall. Changing the terms already? No wonder Undnar took a shine to you." An odd bitterness under the challenge, all of it flowing over a deep riverbed of resignation. "And you might as well use 'Teldryn.' It's what my associates seem to prefer."

"Fair enough. Teldryn." She tried it for size, rolling it around. "Shorter than Demon Chops, anyway."

"Excuse me?"

"What? It suits you."

He rattled another one of his gravely laughs. "I see. Got one for Undnar yet?"

It was Vera's turn to shrug. "'Mad Nord,' but I'm still working on it. What's yours, for him?"

"Nothing I'd repeat in polite company."

Vera made a rude noise. "If you're looking for polite company, you've made a shitty choice of associates. Teldryn."

"Hmm," he mused, thoughtful. "Careful, now. A filthy mouth can invite… complications."

Vera laughed. "As long as it comes with a nimble tongue to resolve them…"

He growled something indistinguishable, but didn't bother shifting out of the way this time. "Let's call this one a draw."

Vera smirked. Oh, but you're wound like a spring, aren't you. "Think again." She shifted her hips against him. The Dunmer inhaled sharply, and clasped his interlaced fingers tighter, knuckles paling to an ashen grey with the effort of holding himself still. "Curse it. Fine."

"Don't be a sore loser, now."

"How about a deal. You seem to like those." That dangerous note had crept back in, the lazy drawl forgotten. "We play to one hundred. If you lose, you tell me where you're really from — the entire fucking story, none of that 'I'm just a Breton, trying to live my life' shit you've been pulling."

Vera looked up to gauge whether his expression matched his tone. The mask of sardonic humor was gone from him entirely. In its place, that odd, banked rage again, old as the hills. Careful, dumbass. He's not all canned peaches and sugar cubes, stop playing with knives or you'll end up missing a finger. She cocked an eyebrow, and aimed her voice at conciliatory. "Wanna tell me what got your underpants in a tizzy, Demon Chops?"

She managed to startle him into a reluctant "heh," but that strange anger still lurked, right under the surface. "If you think Undnar's leaving Markarth any time soon, I suggest you think again. He'll stick to it like a bur to a mutt until he gets everything he came for. If he can use you, he will — and I have a feeling you're in no position to walk away from the coin. So, I'm as stuck with you as you are with me, partner." He inhaled then let go, something uncoiling in him until his shoulders relaxed. He rubbed at his temple, the one with the burn, and cursed softly. "You pass yourself off as a Breton, but you're as feral as a fucking Ashlander. So I'd rather know whether I should expect an arrow in my back, when I'm not looking."

Vera narrowed her eyes, but then she nodded. Yeah. A knife in the back, if it didn't kill you, never healed right. "One hundred. If you lose, you'll tell me what the deal is with Undnar. No more garbage about 'he pays me well.' I want to know why you act like you're bound into his service."

He turned to the river, his face in stark profile against the paling skies. "Fair is fair, I suppose."

"What happens if we don't make it to one hundred?"

"Whoever gives in first loses all their points." He didn't miss a beat. Been thinking the same thing, apparently.

"That's a bit vague. What counts as giving in?"

"Want me to draw you a picture, outlander?"

"I've seen your 'map,' Sero. I shudder to think what you might do with that sort of diagram."

Another one of his short, gravely cackles. "Yours, on the other hand, are… precise. Want to draw me a picture instead?"

"I'll make you a nice legend, too, in case you get confused. With arrows, and x marks the spot, and everything."

This time, he guffawed outright. "What's the score, so far?"

"Let's see. You won the first one — though I conceded too fast, now that I think about it — and I got you with the second-"

"You did not."

"Want me to tell you about honey some more?"

"Oh." He took a breath. "That. One each."

"You got me with the pressure point."

"Hmm," he hummed, apparently in appreciative memory. "I did."

"But you lost the polite company one. Your pattern's showing, by the way…"

He narrowed his one good eye. "Is that what you call it where you come from?"

"No. You want the technical term?" She licked her lips, deliberate about it, and stared him down. "What's wrong, Sero? You look like you're about ready to reset the score to zero. We're not that far in, you'd only be losing… oh, two points?"

His hand shot up, lightning fast, before she could react. He twisted his fingers into her hair, yanking her head to the side, before pressing his lips to her ear. "If you want to taunt, then at least use 'Teldryn,'" he growled, low and dark, "or do you need to scream it before you remember?" He let her go, and settled back with an assessing look. "Ah. I'm beginning to see a pattern too. Point's mine. If you think I'll play nice, think again."

The adrenaline settled quickly, the rest took longer. Back away while you can, you won't be winning this. Martha's voice, of course, Martha who had held her through all the horrors. Dima, though, would've gotten the appeal. World's shit, burn bright and fast. Fewer shadows that way. Vera muffled her ghostly remainders. "No holds barred, eh. Three-three."

He inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgement. "Fancy that. A draw." The sarcastic smirk was back, though not used as a shield this time. A reminder that they fenced with practice blades. Dirty tricks, yes, but no blood drawn.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Above the cliffs, the sky was turning a delicate shade of rose.

"Should have enough light soon to go fishing for our stuff. That'll be your job, I'm not going in there any time soon. Can you dry my armor? I'll see what I can do about scaring up some breakfast." She stretched her limbs, wincing at the crick in her neck — it was back with dividends.

"Hold still." The Dunmer rested his palm on her shoulder, then prodded around until he found the knotted muscle, and pressed his thumb into it. "Stretch your neck to- no, the other way. There." He added a small pulse of magic — similar to the healing magic Lovinar had used on her in the early days, but warmer, somehow, and Vera groaned in relief as the constricted nerves released. "You know," he trailed speculatively, "I think I'll very much enjoy watching you lose."

Vera lifted a shoulder in a shrug. The pain really was gone. "Don't count your pigeons before they hatch."

"What is it with you and pigeons?"

"That's a story for when — or rather if — you get to one hundred."


	7. Chapter 7

_In which Vera shows her teeth, and Undnar shows his right back._

* * *

Vera came across the nest of rock warbler eggs, eight in total (a decent haul), hidden away in a crack about five hundred paces from where they had made camp — if one could call it that — and, for lack of anything to carry them in, she lugged the whole thing back. Along the way, she found some canis root, piling it into the nest on top of the eggs, as well as a few plants of wild garlic, and more river clams. Enough to make breakfast.

She tried to ignore the cinged smell from her armor, but the blissful warmth lingering from the Dunmer's drying spell somewhat made up for it. Her trousers were now riding low, courtesy of the ruined lacing. By some miracle of fortune, the demented Nord's amulet had survivded Vera's near drowning — she found it in her pocket, along with the sticky mess of Sero's leftover blunt. The rollie wasn't salvageable, of course. She'd have to ask him directly if she wanted to learn more about the intended effects of the mixture — that, or bum another smoke, which she wasn't particularly eager to do.

Did he walk around the world in a permanent state of seeing purple lights, or was he using the stuff strategically? And if the glow was indeed induced by the smoking mixture, why had the effect been delayed the first time, but immediate on the second try?

Questions, questions — and considering their little arrangement, he'd probably make her trade for the answers.

She slowed down once their landing spot came into view. Ah. Undnar was awake. And not only awake, but splashing around in the river, apparently washing himself. He looked like a large, russet, frolicking bear, except more or less hairless (for a bear, anyway — for a human, he was decidedly hircute). Butt-naked, too.

What the fuck? Not an injury in sight. A criss-crossing of old scars, yes, but the Nord had looked like a well-tenderized slab of venison when Sero hauled him into the boat. And now, he was as hail as a 'deller — not that Vera had seen many Citadel denizens in her past life, but the two occasions when she had, it was like a different species. Or like one of the Unworshipped, she thought, the tingle of queasy horror prickling her spine.

She cast her eyes around, looking for the other member of the dubious duo. She spotted the Dunmer sitting on a boulder at the edge of the water, also in a state of partial undress — no shirt, but pants on, at least — shaving, of all things. Unlike his employer, he still looked somewhat worse for wear, though his injuries had lessened. The swelling was gone, the bruise over his eye was now tinted yellow instead of the earlier purple-black. The aftereffects of the burns and the broken lip were still visible, but significantly less severe. Vera tried — and utterly failed — not to take an assessing, and entirely non-clinical glance at the rest of him. Ah, fucking hell. Right. The fellow certainly wore his risky profession gracefully, to put it mildly. The sort of lean, sparse efficiency of someone who fought for a living, and did it well. The tracework of intricate tattoos over chiseled muscles, interrupted yet somehow augmented by the pale etchings of battle scars.

The Dunmer, of course, caught her staring — red eyes crinkling in a smile that didn't quite make it all the way down to his lips. He flipped his blade between his fingers — a perfect, nonchalant twirl, and then he tilted his head back and resumed his shaving activities — after holding up the index of his free hand, and then pointing the thumb at himself. One point, Vera translated. She stuck out her tongue at him. And immediately regretted it, since he followed up with a be my guest hand gesture, and then lifted another finger. Two points.

Bastard.

She turned away, looking for a campfire — and found none. Bastards, she amended, plopped down her haul, and started setting up a circle of stones, leaving the Nord and the merc to their grooming activities. She found her pack by a crumpled bedroll. Most of the knapsack's contents had been laid out to dry on the stones, alongside their other salvage. Shit. Her map was ruined. She had left spares at Bothela's, at least, but until then, she'd have to go without. Her bow was propped against a boulder — it was intact, and the fear that had coiled in the pit of her stomach lifted, unclenching. Stupid to get attached to an object — even a weapon, and, perhaps, especially a weapon, all the more so when it had been a gift exchanged after other intimacies. You will survive by this, and I will go without. In her past world, no greater declaration of care existed — and no more certain goodbye. She had carried the sniper rifle too, long after Dima was gone.

Vera dismissed the pointless maudling and busied herself with stacking the fire.

"By the Divines, is that tantalizing smell breakfast?"

Vera glanced up, and quickly returned her attention to the eggs and clam omelet. Their travel skillet had survived too. Apparently, so had all parts of the Nord's anatomy. "Mind putting some pants on, Undnar?"

"Oh! Why, I suppose I should. But only out of respect for your delicate sensibilities, Snowberry." The Nord lumbered off in search of clothing, and returned a few minutes later, muttering unhappily about shrinkage, but in full armor. He plopped down by the campfire. "I'm not used to standing on ceremony, see." He turned, craning his neck. "Sero, blight you, stop pretending you can grow a proper beard, and come have some of this fine meal."

Undnar appropriated the wooden bowl Vera handed out, and dug in with his hands, not waiting for a spoon. Vera got up, poured some canis root tea into one of their rescued mugs, and walked over to the boulder Sero was occupying. "As I recall, you have a particular fondness for this beverage."

The Dunmer leaned back and stared, a sardonic challenge on his features. "How very... considerate. Whatever did I do to deserve such thoughtful attention? Or did you simply come by to enjoy the view, outlander?"

Vera pursed her lips, letting her eyes trail over him. "Nice knife, Sero." She waited him out. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting with a keen curiosity at whatever her next move might involve. "Looks good against your throat."

He stilled for a moment, his strange pupils widening, and then he inclined his head, the hint of a smile quickly smothered. "Your round." He absolutely purred it.

"I'll set your portion of eggs aside in case you'd rather eat later," Vera said under her breath, tallying up the point on automatic before handing him the tea.

"Ah." Beneath the quickly recovered sarcasm, something like surprised gratitude. "My… thanks."

She walked back briskly. After a few moments, the Dunmer trailed after, but, predictably, once at the campfire, he set his food on the ground at his feet once Vera offered it and didn't touch it. He had donned his shirt, at least, and he settled down with his tea with an expression of grim forbearance.

"So, lass," Undnar managed through a huge mouthful of eggs, groaning appreciatively. His eyes, a tawny yellow in the morning sun, squinting with pleasure, like a cat's. Compared to the Dunmer's fading, but still visible injuries, the Nord seemed almost obscenely unscathed. "Smart and resourceful young woman that you are, you must have realized that I might not have been…umm," he swallowed some tea, draining half of his mug in one gulp despite the scalding temperature, "entirely forthcoming with my intentions regarding those Forsworn and the particular piece of property I set out to acquire."

Vera occupied herself with shoveling her share of the omelet into her mouth, declining to respond. Based on Sero's offered commentary earlier, Undnar changing the terms was to be expected.

"How do you feel about making, say, an extra two hundred?"

"No."

Undnar stared in such comical befuddlement that Vera almost snorted. Instead, she swallowed the eggs and poured some tea into her salvaged wooden cup. Even Sero looked up sharply, his eyes, the exact same shade as the rising sun's glare, narrowed in startlement.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" The Nord inquired, as if the meaning of that particular linguistic feature was entirely unknown to him.

Vera fished around in her pocket, extracted the wedding amulet, and tossed it into the Nord's lap. "No, as in we're done." She took a sip of tea. Her little breakfast gathering expedition had afforded her the time to clear her head — a much needed exercise. Sobering. She should have listened to her initial instincts. Undnar had been a walking disaster from the start. If antagonizing Vorstag and drawing Ouroborus's attention to her, and, by extension, to Bothela and Muiri wasn't damaging enough, there was also the slippery way he spoke, his constant semantic adjustments, his insane ideas where the line between jest and coercion blurred. And whatever deal he had with Sero, it wasn't good either.

And then there was the problem of the Dunmer himself. Bad enough that she could barely look at him without ogling — funny how one's perception adjusted with familiarity — there was now that telltale little tightening in the pit of her stomach every time her peripheral vision caught his movements. Well, that, and the memory of his palm rubbing precariously intimate circles over her thigh, and his hand fisting in her hair, and his raspy purr in her ear, like a constant, maddening itch she couldn't reach. Not the end of the world in and of itself — nothing that her fingers couldn't take care of when she had some privacy, and the 'overdue for a lover' thing was going to need addressing at some point regardless. Preferably with someone useful, and, most importantly, reasonably safe. But the combination of intrigued and amorphously, irritably worried about whatever mess the Dunmer was in — now that was a dangerous mixture.

Never start a game you can't win.

She'd get the rest of the coin she was owed, and that was it. She'd talk to Bothela about that mysterious contact, too, and see if the bribe could be lowered that way. And speaking of Bothela, next time the old woman found herself in the mood to dispense advice as to what not to do, Vera would keep her trap shut instead of blustering about how she "would manage."

"Now, now, lass, let's not get hasty." Undnar turned on the affable bear charm, and cranked it up to one hundred. "Here, are you still hungry? Have some more eggs. More tea, yes? You have to excuse my manners, we haven't had the pleasure of traveling with the fairer sex in a while, Sero and I, we're a bit rusty."

Vera waved away the offered eggs. "I don't give a shit about your manners, Undnar. I'll take you two to Karthwasten — it's close, and I'm headed that way regardless. From there, we should be able to hitch a ride back to Markarth, and once we're there, you'll pay me what you owe me. And then you can go wherever the fuck you're headed next, and our business will be concluded."

The Nord's expression went momentarily flinty, before he smoothed it out to his usual jocular, amiable facade. "Snowberry," he trailed, somewhere between conciliatory and hurt, "why am I sensing some hostility?" He turned to Sero. "What did you do to the lass while I wasn't looking, Teldryn?"

"Fished her out of the river after you nearly capsized us. Aside from that…" he shrugged.

"I told you, Sero, no intimidating our new associate. I am going to have to reconsider how much-"

"Leave him out of it, he didn't do anything wrong." Vera glared at the cup of tea in her lap, waiting for the sudden flare of anger to pass before speaking. "Want to tell me how you two managed to escape the Forsworn, and with that sword, to boot? Last night, you looked like skeever hash, Undnar. This morning, you don't have a scratch. Sero here still looks like he had sat around patiently, while someone pummelled him with-" She was about to say "pipes," but caught herself. Wrong analogy. "Well, you tell me. Wasn't a weapon, or he'd be dead."

Undnar beamed. "See, Teldryn! I told you she was sharp. Now, now, you don't expect me to reveal all my secrets, do you, Snowberry? We haven't even shared mead yet, let alone gotten properly drunk together, how do I know I can trust you, hmm?" He leaned forward, a sly, conspiratorial look on his features. "Or is it the sorry state of my associate's face what has you fretting?" He turned to the Dunmer. "Hear that, sellsword? Your disreputable mug is pulling at our new partner's heartstrings, compassionate lass that she is. Maybe next time, we'll trade places, heh?"

The Dunmer's expression remained inscrutable, safe for a slight hitch to his lips. "I doubt you would keep up, Nord," he drawled. Red eyes flicked to Vera, lingering on her a few seconds too long, in open assessment. "Ah, the things we do for the right price…"

The tea went down the wrong pipe, and Vera coughed spastically. Sero lifted his drink in silent salute, and tapped his ring finger against the side of the mug. Three points.

Jerk. All the more so, because he knew perfectly well she couldn't retaliate.

"Woe, woe and misery, what is an old warrior to do?" Undnar wailed in a shoddy facsimile of unearthly torment. "No beautiful Breton lass weeps over his broken countenance, no maidenly tears, limpid as dew, fall upon his brow in silent sorrow…"

Vera narrowed her eyes. Something about the diction, about the way he projected his voice snagged on a memory. Her first night at the Silver Blood Inn when she had any coin to spend, Ogmund had been declaiming something from the Poetic Edda.

Had Undnar been trained as an actor or a bard? It seemed increasingly likely. And then it suddenly clicked, and Vera quickly averted her gaze, hiding her expression. No, not an actor. A conman, was more like it.

"Cut it out." She collected herself, trying to keep the treble of anxiety out of her voice. It didn't help that she had no ground to accuse the Nord of duplicity. Technically, he had followed their arrangement to the letter. Bringing the Forsworn down upon them and almost getting her killed could easily be written off as unforeseen circumstances. Accidents happen, surely we'll do better next time, et cetera.

"I see that I have taken the wrong approach." Something about Undnar shifted, resettling. His face, now devoid of his humorous mask, looked grave. It was an odd expression on him, like something that had fallen out of use. He is older than he appears, Vera thought suddenly. "Can't say I blame you, lass. You can't buy trust with coin like a carrot from a vegetable peddler, heh? Very well." He puffed up before exhaling, and tugged at his beard, momentarily lost in thought. "Let me begin at the beginning, then, and after that, should you wish to leave my service, I'll drop the matter, as the Divines are my witnesses." He rolled his shoulders, settling into the new role, solemn and pensive. "Once upon a time, there was a young man, but this tale, like most tales about young men, is not really about him, for if you wish to get to the heart of such fables-" he brought his hand to his chest and tapped his fist against the worn scales of his armor, "-you must look for the woman."

His diction shifted — the habits of casual speech dropped, his delivery rolling out deep and smooth, with the intonations of someone used to spellbounding crowds. A bard indeed — or perhaps a born bullshitter. "The hero of our story, you must understand, was young, and thereby foolish — and like many young fools, what he lacked in wisdom, he made up in hubris. And like thousands of fools before him, he found himself besotted with a maiden far above his station, as unreachable as the sun itself, and thrice as bright. For this maiden was no ordinary girl, and had our young lad followed his parents' advice, and settled for a comely merchant's daughter, and fathered children with her, and led an unremarkable life of quiet contentment, he would have grown into a happy man indeed. But," Undnar raised his finger and waved it for effect, "this young lad was as foolish as he was proud, and no matter how many lovely lasses Mara, in her benevolence, saw fit to send down his path, doe-eyed and fresh and crisp as lavender, his heart remained as cold to them as stone. Some say it was Dibella who guided his eye, for it was the Jarl's future wife that our young man lusted after."

Undnar paused for effect, as well as to moisten his gullet with a sip of his tea. "Have I gotten your attention yet, Snowberry?"

Vera cast a brief look at Sero. Poker face. No help there. She exhaled, squished her nascent curiosity like a cockroach, and set her jaw. "No."

"No?!" This time the Nord didn't just sound surprised — he was veering towards outraged.

"I'm sure it's a great story. Real tear-jerker. I suggest you save it for the tavern."

Undnar stared at Vera for a few heartbeats in what could only be described as horrified amazement. And then he roared with laughter, scaring a nearby flock of pine thrushes into scattered flight. "Do you hear that, Teldryn? What sort of creature have we unearthed? As lithe and beguiling as a spriggan, as resourceful as Zenithar himself, and as heartless as a Daedroth."

"I suppose two of these descriptions are accurate enough," Sero offered with studied indifference, but Vera caught his quick glance when the Nord occupied himself with inhaling the rest of the eggs, apparently to fortify himself against this unexpected turn of events. The Dunmer's expression was one part irritable amusement, one part something suspiciously close to grudging respect, and one part undisguised carnal interest. At least two of the three emotions, in Vera's estimation, hadn't been carefully rehearsed.

"Look." Vera set her tea aside, and interlaced her fingers in her lap. Keeping the Nord on the friendly side of the equation was wise, as long as he owed her money, anyway. And so she swallowed back the harsher words rolling around on her tongue, and forced a smile. "I am sure you have your reasons for doing what you do. Let me be straight with you as well. Whatever it is you're after — impressing the Jarl's wife into cuckolding her husband, or avenging her memory, or what have you — I'm sure there's going to be an adventurer out there somewhere ready and willing to lend a hand. That isn't me, though." She met his curious gaze. "You picked me for three reasons, as far as I can tell. First, you heard I was suited to the task. Second, you knew I needed the money. And third, most importantly, you knew that if I went missing, there'd be no serious repercussions. No family or social relations with enough coin to send hired goons after you to avenge my good name, and so on."

"Why, I would never-"

"I like you, Undnar, but I don't like your methods. You're cavalier, and you're pushy. From what I can tell, your strategy involves flying by the seat of your pants. We simply don't match in our approach. Whatever it is you're after, I'm not your gal. Nothing personal."

Now, both the Nord and the Dunmer were staring at her with matching expressions of suspicious amazement.

Undnar recovered first. "Teldryn, I think I may be in love," he exclaimed with great, and entirely fake, pathos.

"My condolences," Sero chuckled, but his eyes never left Vera. She ignored his interrogative stare, and looked back at the Nord.

"For no love potion is greater than merciless rejection," Undnar amended, shaking an edifying finger.

"Well, you'll have to get over it. I'm with you until Markarth. Then you will pay my fee, and I'll wish you the best of luck."

Undnar ruminated, his eyes aglow with speculation. And then another mask fell off, and all that remained was a keenly intelligent, calculating shrewdness. "Not so fast, lass. As an aside, you are quite the find. Here's how it's going to be." He leaned forward. "I've made some inquiries about you — due diligence, you know how that goes. Rumor has it you've been hounding that Altmer conjurer, what's his name. Calcelmo, was it? Well." He stretched and cast a forlorn look at the empty skillet. And then he plucked a head of garlic, peeled it with alarming efficiency, and started popping the cloves into his mouth, one after the other, crunching through them with visible relish. Vera stared in horror. Sero prudently relocated further away, and quickly dug into his eggs, before the insatiable Nord appropriated those too. "See, Snowberry, I am what one might call a bit of a... collector. Widely known in narrow circles, and all that. About three months ago, I received a letter from a fellow out of Markarth named Calcelmo, looking for a certain Dwarven artifact. Which just so happens to be in my ownership. Bit of a collector himself, I'm given to understand. Now, as a collector, I can tell you that parting with a prized possession isn't something that we, collectors, are eager to do, but for the right reasons… Say, to help a friend in need get an in with a reputedly difficult and ill-tempered mage… You're a smart lass, Snowberry, you see where this is going, don't you?"

Vera exhaled. Oh, but she was in so much shit. Because now, she had no doubt that as soon as she brushed aside the offered carrot, the stick would loom into view. Suddenly, her little game with the Dunmer acquired a whole new set of stakes. "What's on the other side of the coin, Undnar?"

"Suspicious creature, aren't you?"

"Realistic."

He smiled his chipped grin, nodded at her question, and leaned forward. "Let me tell you a little secret, Snowberry, since we're all becoming fast friends, yes? I am, what we might call, a real traditional Nord. See, the other side of the coin is that you have been consorting with what is otherwise known as a devoted follower of mighty Talos. I wonder if our Thalmor friend might find that information interesting?" He crunched through the last of the garlic. "And before you get any ideas about anonymously drafted reports, the difference is that I have the means to leverage myself out of Oblivion itself, should the need arise. But you..." He motioned with his hands and arranged his face into an approximation of commiseration. "As you said. No family and no social relations."

Vera glanced at the Dunmer. He was carefully avoiding her gaze, staring intently into the fire, his expression grim.

"Why the long face, Snowberry? Don't you worry one bit. As Talos is my witness, I never betray my friends — as long as they stay my friends, that is. No, I think this little arrangement will benefit all of us. I'll help you with the Dwemer-obsessed mage and line your pockets with more gold than you can throw away on that struggling little apothecary where you've been hiding. Everyone wins.."

"As long as I dance to your tune," Vera clarified, the icy crawl of terror slowly curdling into cold rage. She kept her face neutral, and her voice steady.

"Now, did you have to be so crass about it?" He squinted, the jovial jester expression firmly back on. "Wait? Do you dance, too?" He turned to Sero. "Hear that, sellsword? She really is a treasure."

"Never could pass one up for as long as I've known you, yes," the Dunmer commented acerbically, and got up. "Now that this is over with, what's our next move?"

* * *

_Another one of those chapters that kept getting too long, so I had to break it down. Now, this fic is features a few morally ambiguous characters, and you're now getting a taste of what I meant by that. Undnar is going to be... complicated. As always, a million thanks for your likes, follows, and comments, they fuel the writing!_

_Please note: this story is also being cross-posted on AO3, which is the main site where I normally post my fics. The updates there are going to come in faster than here, since I prefer the interface and it allows me to interact with readers more easily. You can find it at archiveofourown under __/works/20168293/chapters/48428611_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Summary: **Fishing for information_

* * *

They came up on Karthwasten in the early afternoon, in advance of a gathering rainstorm. Steely gray clouds hung low, snagging on the jagged peaks and shrouding the summits in roiling mists.

The weather matched Vera's bleak mood. She pretended uncertainty about their route now that her map was gone to scout ahead. Bullshit, of course, she could walk the path to Karthwasten with her eyes closed — it wasn't exactly rocket science (back when such a thing as rockets were still imaginable) — but she wanted to put some distance between herself and the other two, and give herself some space to think. The gathering fog beckoned her like a impulse to simply veer off the path while she was out of view — a thicket of juniper trees, a copse of pines, a jagged streambed, its twists and turns offering shelter from prying eyes — promised a quick flight to safety. It would be easy — she knew the terrain, and they didn't. She could simply lose herself in the wilderness of the Sundered Hills. She would make do, it wouldn't be the first time: a few weeks, a month if needed — and then she would trek back to Markarth, apologize to Bothela and Muiri for not sending word, and by then, surely Undnar would have moved on.

Vera plucked a young juniper shoot from the nearby tree and crushed it between her fingers, the sharp scent soothing. Undnar's threat to oust her to Ouroboros might have been a bluff — or, no, not a bluff. Insurance for a rainy day. But she had no doubt that the Nord would not let go so easily should she just abscond. If he couldn't buy her compliance, how long would it take for him to start throwing his money and weight and charisma around to make her fall in line? Bothela could hold her own — but not with the liability of Muiri's unplanned pregnancy, especially with the Silver-Bloods gobbling up most of the shop's revenue, the corrupt family like a bloated tapeworm at the heart of the city. And if Undnar found a way to intimidate Muiri…

Just cut your losses and go. Trek to that village Fae was heading to. If he made it there, surely he'll offer assistance, help you set up.

The idea was logical, but it didn't sit well. Always put on your own mask first, yeah, but there was also the poor sod in the seat next to you. You were only as human as the shape those around you gave you with their expectations — with their hopes, and their cares, and their fears. Without that… Well. Case in point. Dima in the last month before the madness took hold for good, cutting them off, one at a time, like gangrenous limbs. Vera was last. And then their final meeting — last time they slept together, too, even though she knew it was the risky period of her cycle. She'd done it anyway, in a stupid, desperate bid to break through whatever warped, twisted thing the Unworshipped had done to his mind. He had been lucid then, lucid enough for hope to snag her like a fishhook. And then he left her with his old McMillan, a howling hole where her heart had been, and the risk of a little souvenir, Muiri style. Martha, half a bottle of rotgut later, had said the only crass thing Vera had ever heard from the woman — erudite, studiously polite Martha who couldn't say 'hell' without embarrassment. "Oh, Vee. If the 'salvation by fucking' motif worked in real life, the world would be a better place indeed."

Vera brushed aside her chronic hauntings. Point was, even if she could find an alternative to Calcelmo — surely, he wasn't the only one who could teach her about the purple gems and drag that nagging little feeling of recognition to the surface — she had made a promise, even if not verbalized as such.

There were other things Undnar could use — and he would, she had no doubt about it. The bastard Nord might be a relative stranger to Markarth — so he had claimed, anyway — but what had he said? Widely known in narrow circles. So, he didn't just have money — he had connections. Best case scenario, he could poison the well with Calcelmo, either out of spite or simply to cut off her options. Worst case scenario, Markarth was a place where, for the right price, people disappeared in the bowels of Cihdna, without much fuss over whether they were guilty or not. She wouldn't last too long in the mine, and not just because of the brutal working conditions.

There was the other, more permanent option. She could probably talk Bothela into helping, once she explained the full extent of the situation. And if not, there were special formularies in the back room of the Hag's Cure, under lock, of course — but she knew where Bothela kept the key, tucked away into an empty bottle of Cyrodilic brandy. Considering Vera had found herself on cooking duty, slipping something nasty into Undnar's food was just a matter of having the right substance on hand. That, and not giving him cause to suspect foul play.

Which brought her to the Dunmer. Why hadn't he just dispatched the Mad Nord in his sleep? What could possibly bind him in Undnar's service? That he was bound in some way seemed obvious enough. She still couldn't quite make sense of his refusal to eat at the same time as his employer, or whatever Undnar really was — initially, she'd written it off as a Dunmer cultural quirk, or perhaps some form of protest, but that didn't seem quite right. Then there was the Forsworn mess. She ground her teeth against a vivid mental image of the merc, his hands bound, that fierce grin plastered over an impossible mixture of festering rage and hollow resignation, holding himself still as he withstood the blows. Perfectly aware that he could just burn his assailants to a crisp, or disable them in some other, no doubt lethally efficient, way. And instead, doing nothing.

Then there was the costuming gambit Undnar had proposed — a ridiculous scheme that took "stupid," and gave it a run for its money. As if the point wasn't to get to your goal, but to do it in a way that hollered "are you not entertained?" at some invisible audience. Everything about Undnar had that quality — that posturing for posterity, as if he was always on stage, already fancying himself the hero of some yet uncomposed saga. What kind of psychopath went through life-

Vera spun around, her hand going to her bow — before she remembered that it was useless now that her quiver was gone.

"Stay your hand, Snowberry. Just us."

She would need to fletch more arrows, and soon — or see if someone in Karthwasten would trade her for hunting supplies.

Undnar emerged from behind the bend in the path and ambled forward, the Dunmer a few paces behind him. "I was beginning to worry that we'd lost you! But here you are, amidst the early blooms, a vision of such unsurpassed loveliness that Kynareth herself would wilt with envy..." He went on through more superlatives before huffing to a stop a few paces away. "Are we far yet? I fear that I will collapse from starvation and exhaustion, and Teldryn here has been brought low by… what was it this time, Sero? A rock in your shoe?"

"Never mind my shoes, Undnar." The Dunmer glanced at the skies. "If we could avoid the rain, I wouldn't complain, though."

"Karthwasten is just behind that knoll." Vera motioned with her chin. "Can't you smell the smoke from the smelter?" She didn't wait for a response, resuming her trek up to the village.

###

Karthwasten hadn't changed that much since the last time Vera visited. The miners' barracks were freshly repainted, and Ainethach had expanded the veranda, construction debris still piled high against the back wall of Karthwasten Hall. She spotted Gwynara, Ainethach's elderly mother, shelling beans into a small basin at the large communal table. When the old woman looked up at their approach, squinting her milky eyes at the strangers, Vera waved at her through a pang of guilt-laden sadness. They were passably well acquainted, and the old Reach native had always been kind whenever Vera followed Lovinar on his supply route to the village. Gwynara had loved the old herbalist with that peculiar species of love that very old humans in Vera's new world sometimes harbored towards very old mer — how one loves an ancient tree, or a mountain, in whose shade one played as a child, its reassuring permanence a witness to one's life, and to the lives of one's children and of one's children's children, as they grew and aged and died. An unchanging anchor in the tides of time.

She should have brought the news of his passing earlier.

"Lovinar's little apprentice, is it?" Gwynara's face crinkled in smiley recognition. "Come closer child, my eyes aren't what they used to be," the old matron creaked in her thready voice, and stood slowly from her task, using the table for leverage. Vera went up the veranda steps, leaving her two companions to stand in the dusty courtyard. For a Reach woman, Gwynara was tall and broad-boned — perhaps courtesy of some Nordic ancestry. She stooped over Vera, grasping her arms with knotted fingers. "Sight for sore eyes, aren't you? How's that old mer, by the by? Been a while since we've seen him."

Vera shook her head, letting Gwynara read the grief in her face by way of an answer. The old woman stood motionless for a few beats, and then just nodded. "Aye. When, then?"

"Sun's Dawn. I should have brought news sooner. I'm sorry."

Gwynara's gaze turned cloudy with invisible memories, trained on an inner timeline, life accumulated like thread winding around a spool. "Did you bury him proper?"

Vera nodded. "I was there until the end, and yes. By the shack. He always liked the deathbells in the back, fussed over them like they were some baby bird he'd rescued."

The old woman chuckled. "Aye, gave me some of the bulbs when I couldn't get mine to grow. Nothing much grows here, mind, 'cept beans. Plenty of those. Eh." She waved it away with a rattly sigh. "I'll miss the mer, scatterbrain though he was. Divines know I tried to talk him into taking an apprentice, but he'd hear none of it. I'm glad Arkay saw fit to send you to him in his final year. You'll be taking over the supply route, then?"

Vera made a noncommittal noise. "I'll try. I'm with Bothela, out in Markarth now."

Gwynara squinted, her close-lipped, toothless smile illuminating her face with an etching of wrinkles. "Heh! Bothela. Used to be quite the firebrand in her day. Had a whole gaggle of fool men fighting over her — like rutting rams in spring, they were. 'Cept more thick-headed."

Vera snorted. "I have a feeling she still does." If Muiri's rather ungenerous theory about the Jarl's uncle was correct, anyway — that he sent his weekly request for his special "tonic" as a message to the Hag's Cure's owner. Willing, and, by your grace, able. Just say the word.

"Bet you didn't come all this way to entertain an old woman with town gossip and sad news, did you?" Gwynara turned her head, surveying Undnar and Sero, still planted in the middle of the courtyard and fielding curious chickens — and, in Undnar's case, showing remarkable restraint by not inserting himself into the middle of things. Sero had busied himself with rolling a cigarette. "And who might you be, eh? Come closer, young men — that's about all I can tell about you from this distance, 'cept one's as grey as a mudcrab, and the other one might as well be a bear, by the size."

Undnar stepped forward. "Greetings, honored matriarch. We are simple travelers, seeking a place to rest for the night. And to hire a carriage to take us back to Markarth." He rubbed the back of his head, a picture of cowed respect for the elderly. "And a bit to eat, perchance? We'll not trouble you at all, and we can pay fair."

"You'll want Ainethach, then. If he managed to shake off that Silver Blood busibody, that is. Ate our food for three days straight, and demanded to see Sanuarach — like some puffed-up noble wanting to tour the Blue Palace, and not the greedy little scramp with a tooth for silver that he is." Gwynara reached for her cane and thumped her way down to the courtyard. She stopped in front of Undnar. "Now, I want no funny business on my land. I've seen your type, outsiders, don't think I haven't — nothing but trouble, the lot of you." She turned to Vera. "Old ways still hold, child, I trust Lovinar taught you proper. You vouch for what you bring, aye?"

Vera cast a warning glance at the Nord. "I'm sure my companions will be on their best behavior while under your roof."

"Better be." Gwynara shook her cane at Undnar in warning. "You're in the Reach now, boy. Watch yourself, eh? Or it's into the soup with you." She made chewing motions with her jaw, and, after catching the Nord's alarmed expression, she burst into creaky cackles. "Come now, I'll take you to my son."

###

The evening brought rain, a torrent blown in slanted sheets over the village, water battering against the planks of the miners' barracks where they took their meal. Undnar was in deep discussion with Ainethach, the two apparently fast friends. Once Gwynara retired back to Karthwasten Hall for the evening, the Nord had left his deferential, abashedly respectful persona behind, and cranked up the charm. He entertained with stories and gossip, ensnaring the miners' attention with his yarns — outrageous shaggy dog tales about his and Sero's misadventures that somehow managed to never reveal anything personal. He seemed relaxed, perfectly in his element. His audience asked for news from the other provinces — a cousin in Whiterun who was meant to marry but the wedding had been postponed; and was that rumor about restless giants terrorizing livestock true; and had they been to Riften recently? Had the Thieves Guild really fallen on hard times? What was the price of silver out in Solitude nowadays? Did he know anything about the Khajiit caravaners — and weren't they due back from Markarth any day now, or were they taking the eastern route?

Sero sat a few feet behind his employer, his chair angled to watch the room, apparently simply content to nurse his ale and listen with half-an-ear. He looked lost in his own thoughts — Vera caught his gaze on her a few times, his expression pensive.

She shared her meal with Lash gra-Dushnikh, listening distractedly as the Orsimer groused about the Silver-Bloods' efforts to buy the land from under Ainethach. "I swear, if he sells the mine, I'm quitting. I didn't leave the stronghold to slave under some Nord's boot."

"Where would you go?" Vera asked.

"Dawnstar, maybe." Lash shrugged, the fabric of her shirt bunching with the roll of her massive shoulders. "If I can get the coin for travel. Fenn's Gulch will be drier than a draugar's teat in a year, two at most. Ainethach keeps production low, trying to get those Silver-Bloods off his back, but they ain't fooled." She took a sip of her ale. "So Lovinar's gone, huh. Lasted longer than I thought — never got this whole 'live until a ripe old age' business. Best end it while..." The Orc trailed off, her pale blue eyes narrowing as she glanced to the table where Undnar and Sero were still seated. "Say, what's with that Nord you dragged in here? Shopping for a wife, by the looks of that amulet."

Oh, shit. Vera followed the miner's gaze. Sure enough, Undnar was leaning conspiratorially towards Ainethach, already tucking the Mara symbol back into his armor, and making a vague, but somehow significant, head gesture in Vera's direction.

Motherfucker. She should have tossed the damn amulet into the river.

The Reachman shot her a curious glance, and answered something, matching the Nord's quiet tone.

Vera caught Sero's eyes on her and tried to read his expression. A flash of something — not anger, exactly. More chronic. He extracted his satchel of smoking mixture and quickly rolled a cigarette — and then another. And then the Dunmer pushed his chair back and stood, leaving the half-finished ale on the table, and strolled over to where Vera was sitting. He inclined his head, a perfunctory gesture of politeness in Lash's direction. "May your weapons be sharp, isn't that what they say?"

"And your prey fresh," the miner rejoined, her gaze lingering on the blade at the merc's hip. "I see yours is sharp already, outsider, by the looks of that sword. Don't see ebony everyday."

Sero's expression went rigid, before he smoothed it out. "Apologies... for the interruption. Mind if I borrow my traveling partner for a moment?" He motioned at Vera. "Care to join me?"

Vera deliberated. A ploy to get her somewhere where they could talk? He had left her well enough alone on the road to Karthwasten, sensing her mood, perhaps. Maybe he felt guilty — she supposed that he did try to warn her, after a fashion, though he hadn't exactly dotted the i-s.

She caught an odd look from Undnar — the Nord seemed none-too-pleased by Demon Chops' sudden need for a smoke. Ah. So not just a ploy to get her out of earshot. She nodded and followed him outside with a "I'll be back shortly" at Lash.

The storm still raged, the wooden porch drenched with muddy runoff. Sero leaned against the wall and flicked his fingers, sheltering the small flame against the wind. His features flashed in high contrast, all angles and deep shadows. He took a drag, and then he passed the lit cigarette to Vera.

"Will this make me see weird shit?" she asked, plucking the offered rollie.

Another flare of light illuminated a crooked smile. "Not this one." He blew out the smoke, watching it drift into the rainy night. "I did warn you the other mixture was on the strong side..."

She took a drag. Tobacco of some kind, with a sweet, spicy finish. "You're using it to see living things in the dark?" It was the only explanation she could come up with for the purple glow.

"Detect life, among some other… benefits," he offered, his tone studiously casual. She felt his gaze on her in the darkness, searching — and finding — some kind of answer. Apparently, his night vision was more acute than hers. "You've never heard of the spell, have you? On that note, I have not seen you cast. I'd say odd, for a Breton, but since we've established that you aren't one… Do you not use your magic at all, or do you choose not to do so in our presence?"

Vera frowned at his formulation. It presupposed that she did in fact have access to magic, and that he could sense it in some way — unless, of course, he was assuming that everyone did, and that a creature without it was unimaginable.

"Perhaps I don't have any magic to begin with?"

He huffed an incredulous chuckle. "Is this some sort of game, outlander? You just said yourself that you saw the souls. If you had no magic whatsoever — which you do, as well you know, with an affinity for soul work, by the feel of it — you would've seen nothing. So, at the risk of repeating myself — why have you chosen not to use it? If you think Undnar and I would find the conjuration school unpalatable, you're of a higher opinion of us than you should be."

The souls. So that was the connection between the purple swirl and Lovinar's "soul gem" — it was right there in the word, too. Oh, but was she ever slow. The old herbalist had cautioned her not to let the soul settle. She had assumed it to be some metaphorical turn of phrase — a poetic way to talk about the essence of the enchantment. Stupid. So that's where it came from — some type of spiritual predation. Waste not. Use every part of the creature you kill. A motto with a harsh but reassuring ethic, and one she had tried to live by, in her broken world and then in this one. A chill crept down her spine. Was there such a thing as soul cannibalism?

Vera pointedly ignored the Dunmer's question. "What other benefits?"

"So this is how it will be, is it?" The flare of sudden frustration crackled off him like a static charge, but he muzzled the emotional response quickly, steering it towards his usual prickly irony. "Tell me, are people so very fond of games where you come from, or is it a personal predilection?"

Redirect. "Why won't you eat before Undnar does? Does he forbid it? Are you afraid of being poisoned?"

He stood in silence for a few moments, but when he finally answered, the bite had gone out of his voice. "Will we be trading questions until this night is over?"

Vera leaned against the wall next to the merc. She drew smoke into her lungs, exhaling it slowly. Perhaps she was imagining the heat he gave off — the chitin armor seemed to dampen the effect, either by virtue of the material itself, or as the result of a magical enhancement. "Is there something else you'd rather be trading?"

He huffed in dry amusement. "Depends... what would you consider an equitable exchange?"

Ah. Vera noted the shift in register, the way his voice dropped to a gravely drawl. It was too dark to discern his expression, but she could feel his eyes on her, almost tactile in their scrutiny. "Depends," she parroted back. "Which game are we playing now?"

He thought about it. "Is there ever more than one?" Double edged, with velvet on one side, and steel on the other.

"It rather depends on the other players. And on the stakes."

This time, he laughed outright, a tart note mixed in with his mirth. "Doesn't it just? And an actual answer! After a fashion, anyway." He paused, ruminating. "I'll take what I can get."

In what sense?

Vera missed a beat, the pause deafening against the patter of rain. The Dunmer chuckled quietly. "The round's mine, I believe. Unless we're… playing something else?"

She wondered vaguely whether the lack of visual cues made things easier, or harder. Either way, it was her move. "So did you just get me out here to flirt, Sero?"

"Hmm. Is that what we're doing? I suppose there are worse ways to while away an evening." He hesitated, weighing his response. "If you'd rather go back and receive congratulations on your marriage proposal, by all means, don't let me stop you."

Breathe. Vera forced her shoulders to unclench. The option to disappear and leave this mess behind to sort itself out, (while ignoring the potential repercussions for others), cowardly as it was, was still there. Wouldn't be her first betrayal. Small change, in the grand scheme of things. Cut it off, before the infection sets in. It'll only be more painful later, when the social ties grew ropy and knotted. She'd play along until Undnar paid her, and then she'd leave most of the money to Bothela and Muiri, buying off her guilt with coin, and taking only what was needed for travel.

Right now, though, they had a degree of privacy, and for all his tight-lipped quips, the Dunmer seemed in a chatty mood. It would be stupid not to exploit it. "I'm trying to work out what your employer gains by this." She kept her tone conversational, locking the cold prickle of fear and fury behind a screen of idle curiosity. "At a guess, this isn't the first time he pulls this sort of shit."

The Dunmer kept himself still, so she couldn't read his movements for the acknowledgement. After a moment, he offered it regardless. "It isn't."

Right. So that, at least, confirmed her theory that Undnar was some kind of con artist. All the more reason to just poison the bastard, before he could do more damage. "See, if I were the type of person whose… what do you call it? Good name? Could be used as leverage — or as ransom — I could see the advantage, but as it stands…" Vera shrugged. "I'm not that."

"You aren't concerned about the potential damage to your 'virtue,' should Undnar suddenly decide to renege on his offer?"

Maybe it was his slightly conspiratorial sarcasm, but it startled her into a laugh, the tight coil of terror-laced anger in the pit of her stomach easing a fraction. "Not that I don't appreciate the concern, but if you're worried about my virtue, Sero, I think you might be barking up the wrong tree."

"Is that so?" Smoke and chocolate in his voice, so intimate it verged on obscene. Oh, but he was using the darkness to his advantage, the bastard.

The impulse to even the tally of their little game battled with the weight of his earlier admission about Undnar's strategies. He'd chosen to give her something when he could have deflected. Vera sighed. The cigarette was beginning to burn her fingers, so she took one last drag before crushing it under her boot. "In my experience, the world's a... messy place. So you take what you can get. There are worse ways to while away an evening."

He took a long time to answer, but when he did, there was a tightness behind the words. "The point is yours, Hlakhes."

Vera squinted — to no avail. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing worse than 'Demon Chops,' don't worry." He chuckled, a private sound. "What's the score?"

"You're winning by three points, but we're a long way from one hundred."

"Think you can... catch up?"

Vera smirked, letting the Dunmer read her expression even though she couldn't discern his. "Good point. We haven't discussed more direct methods."

Sero exhaled a bit more audibly than usual, but caught himself. "Now now, we wouldn't want to compromise your prospective nuptials, hmm?" He dragged on his rollie, red eyes refracting the glow from the amber.

She turned to face him, leaning her shoulder against the wall. "Are you joking? At this point, I'd ride you until you couldn't see straight out of sheer malice over Undnar's bullshit."

The Dunmer choked on the smoke, coughed, and spat something that sounded like 'chow,' but with an added consonant at the beginning. "Nice timing," he managed.

"I never said I'd play fair either. My round. I don't understand why you don't just leave — or get rid of him." A gambit, sure, but who risks nothing, and all that. "How long has it been, anyway?"

In the dying glow of the cigarette, Vera caught the Dunmer's eyes narrowing. "Nice try, outworlder. And since you surely wouldn't try to cheat…" He dragged out the suspense, letting it accrue heat and threat in equal measure. "I'll just assume that you're asking me how long it's been since the last time I fucked."

Bastard. Oh, but she'd set herself up for that one. Between the sudden darkness and his invisible but no less palpable gaze, the limbic brain cycled through the predictable responses, and settled, finally — and just as predictably. Then again, if he kept himself from eating, this could be relevant information. Yeah, right. "Not what I was asking, but do share, if that's what's on your mind." Passable. Not great, but perhaps he wouldn't claim the point.

"Hmm. Blunts some reactions, sharpens others."

What?

"Your earlier question. About the smoking mixture. You asked what other benefits it has. Or have you… forgotten?" He sounded rather pleased with himself.

Well. At least one of them was keeping track of the conversation. Quit now, you dumbass. "A fount of resourcefulness, aren't you?"

"Swords, spells…" he trailed off, a mocking edge to his voice. "And a few other... tricks up my sleeve."

Her throat went dry. "Good pitch."

"Works every time." Something was a tad off about the statement, an almost melancholy note. "Don't try it. Vee."

"Don't try what?"

His hand came up, settling on her shoulder and giving it a brief squeeze. A strangely companionable gesture, an odd camaraderie beneath the electric buzz between them. "Don't try to kill him." His thumb trailed along her neck, leaving a shiver in its trail, only a small portion of it fear. "You won't manage it."

Vera forced her jaw to unclench. "He doesn't own me, S-" She bit it back, bringing her own hand up to thread her fingers through his. "Teldryn. What does he have on you?"

He swallowed and moved away, too quickly, as if burned. "It's… not so simple." And then he shook it off, resettling into his usual persona. "Foul weather. Shall we go back to where it's warm, before Undnar decides we have gone missing?"

* * *

Hlakhes = _best I can tell from what we have of the Dunmeri language, something like "little jewel" or "little gem" (here, Sero's using it as wordplay on the earlier banter about Undnar finding himself a little treasure - in addition to coming up with an endearment/nickname for Vera.)_

_Next up: Back to Markarth, tightening snares, tricky politics._

_Score: T-7, V-5. We're a long way from 100, but the points are going to start accumulating a bit faster. ;)_


	9. Chapter 9

_Complications._

* * *

Vera slept restlessly, waking up every few hours with her heart beating too fast, distant gunfire in her ears rearranging itself into the thump of a tree branch against the wall outside. The hard bench and threadbare blanket she'd borrowed certainly didn't help matters, nor did the buzz of thoughts rattling in her head.

After she and Sero returned from their "smoke break," Undnar had ushered them all off to bed like a concerned parent cajoling recalcitrant children. "We leave with Enmon's carriage bright and early, so best not stay up too late chit chatting, hmm? Wouldn't want to oversleep and make an honest man miss market day, would you, Snowberry?"

Especially since there's no one to entertain yourself with to pass the time, Vera thought acerbically, but chose not to comment. There was Lash, of course, but if Undnar wanted to have a go at the Orc miner, Vera certainly wasn't about to discourage him. A pick-axe to the balls might be just what the doctor ordered.

She was more than happy to leave the Nord and the Dunmer to figure out their own sleeping arrangements. She managed to sweet-talk Lash into unlocking the bathhouse for her — a squat, windowless wooden shack at the back of the barracks, pitch dark safe for the brazier in the center, still glowing hot from the post-work shift. The room had a warm, earthy smell — clean sweat, pine, juniper oil, fresh cinders, strong lye soap. It wasn't much to look at — a few benches and a firepit, two barrels of rainwater mercifully free of mosquito larvae, but for all its rusticness, it beat the Markarth public baths any day, if for no other reason than the promise of relative privacy. Not to mention that there was no back room for shady deals or the occasional murder, and the only drunken debauchery you'd see would be Ragnar and Belchimac having a few ales and arguing over who could haul more rocks.

She made quick work of washing off the river muck — there wasn't much she could do about the armor, which still stank like a charred skeever hide — but she gave her underclothes, spare trousers, and tunic a good scrub, and set them out to dry. Then she lay back on the bench, watching the afterimage of the brazier cycle through fading colors against the darkness under the ceiling.

Privacy. A luxury few could buy, and always in short supply — stupid not to make use of it when you had it. She tried to keep her breaths quiet and her thoughts on familiar, well-trodden rails, but when her fingers found the right rhythm, it wasn't memories of Dima that sent her over the edge, nor Fae, nor the ghostly touch of other lovers past — scattered like bitter ashes. Of course, it just had to be the fucking Dunmer, with his fist in her hair, and his hand between her thighs, and his eyes on her glowing like hot coals in the darkness — that had done the trick, and way too quickly. She bit her lip to muffle the cry, her free hand clenching the side of the bench in a death grip as she rode out the waves until she went limp and breathless, a numb, unfocused anger at her own stupidity — you're up shit creek, you dumbass, you're supposed to paddle, not jump into the fucking water — lacing through the aftershocks of pleasure. Limbic brain 1, reason 0. And then limbic brain 2, reason 0, but who's counting.

Sleep — such as it was — claimed her shortly after.

It was still dark when Vera left the bathhouse, dressed, packed, and ready for the road. The storm had passed, leaving an afterthought of winter in its wake. Her breath hung in milky clouds in front of her, the grass underfoot crunching with a dusting of grey frost.

Despite the early hour, Gwynara was already up, sweeping the veranda in slow, abbreviated movements as her arthritic joints protested the task. Vera approached, left her pack on the steps, and motioned with her chin at the bag of feed by the door. "I'll finish the sweeping if you want to go see to the chickens."

The old woman leaned on her broom and gave Vera a once-over, her face etched with worry and disapproval. "Early up, aren't you." She shuffled closer and thrust the broom forward. "Aye, sweep the porch if you want to do an old woman a kindness, but methinks it's what's between the ears that needs a-tidying, eh? You got yourself betrothed to that Nord?"

Vera took the broom. "No." Fucking Undnar.

Gwynara turned, stooping over the bag of chicken feed. A hopeful bawk bawk greeted her from the yard. "Not what he claims, from what I hear."

"Then he's mixed up about where the horse goes relative to the cart."

Gwynara huffed something unflattering about fool men, and tossed a handful of grain at the gathering birds. "What manner of trouble are you in, child? And don't think of lying, I might not see worth a skeever's tail, but I know what I'm hearing. This Undnar you brought, and the Dunmer he's dragging around, gods know they've got more trouble riding on their backs than Sanuarach's got silver."

"What makes you say that?" Maybe there was something obvious she was missing, some sort of social cue that she couldn't see by dint of being an outsider.

More grain flew into the courtyard, to the sound of excited squawking. "Funny thing, about that amulet. Folk see Mara's knot, and it's all their eyes bother taking in. As if a person looking for marriage is only ever that. You ever play thimbles with a Khajiit, child?"

Vera shook her head. "I know better than to play anything with the Khajiit."

"Smart girl, by the by, but if you had — then you'd know that it's not the hand that does the shuffling that you need to watch."

Vera nodded slowly. "So, a distraction tactic."

Gwynara huffed. "As I said, I might not see well, but I hear just fine. Been asking lots of questions of my Ainethach, that Nord of yours. About the Silver Bloods, and how the mine is doing, and how long the land's been in the family." She tossed more grain at the squabbling birds. "Odder questions, too. About the old ways-" her voice lowered, "-and about The Mistress. Now, girl, I didn't raise no fool — Ainethach knows when someone's going a-fishing — or he would, if not for that amulet, and a pretty green-eyed Breton lass to lend it credibility, heh?" She turned to Vera, her milky eyes crinkling in canny amusement. "Now, I see how my son's been looking at you ever since you showed up with Lovinar. He's not young or strapping, but he's smart, and he's got a good sense for coin. Raised him kind, too. And you" - she thrust a bony finger in Vera's direction "-might not be a flowering young maiden — I know a rocky road when I see it — but you still got many years for children, and you've a good head on your shoulders. Easy on the eyes, too, s'far as I can tell — which ain't that far." She chortled quietly.

Vera swept more debris into the cracks between the planks and snorted despite herself. "Want to borrow that Mara sigil from Undnar, while you're at it? I don't think I've ever had a marriage proposal from someone's mother, but I guess there's a first for everything."

"It'd be a better life than tangling yourself up with that Nord, that's for sure. And that Grey Skin of his-" she made a face, "-now, I don't know what the Dark Elves with their ash-ruined homelands are like on the whole, but that one's running at his own death like it can't catch him fast enough."

Vera paused in her sweeping. "Why do you say that?"

"'Cause I'm old, lass, and I've seen enough kinsmen when that cursed Forsworn business worms its way into their addled heads, is why. Seen it on miners when the last of the vein goes dry. Seen it on beasts, too. You back a wolf against a cliff, and it'll look at you just the same, with nothing but its death and yours in its eyes."

Interesting. She wouldn't have put it that way — but something about the merc, about that old, bone-deep resignation, buried under the layers of chitin and lazy irony, felt all too familiar. Maybe she'd not been able to recognize it because of that sense of kinship. It was a look everyone she knew in her old world had worn at one point or another. Defensive nihilism, Martha had called it once, remembering a time when something else had been imaginable. Martha, who'd been going on fifty when Vera was only approaching her early thirties, was from a generation that still remembered a time before — not the same world Vera's mother had lived in, but close enough to it that folk still thought you could turn back the clock, somehow, that things would right themselves, that some force of order and goodness would sweep in and straighten the mess. Instead, they got gangs, and Citadels, and the Unworshipped. For Vera's generation, hope for the future was an atrophied muscle. Vestigial. So you grew spikes and ridges, a hard, prickly second skin, and you didn't pay it any mind like a fish doesn't notice the water. And you took what you could get, when you could get it, because tomorrow was no more certain than your next breath.

"I'm no marriage material, Gwynara. Ainethach can do better."

"That's for the gods to decide, and for us mortals to ponder. Think on it, s'all I'm asking. Now, listen." She tossed the last of the grain into the yard, and made her way to Vera, gripping the porch railing for stability. "Your Nord. You're working a job for him, aye?"

Vera nodded.

"That man's got gold in his pockets, sure, but the silver on his tongue, that's not something you just find in a chest. Bard's College, methinks. He's no skald, but he sure likes the sound of himself talking." One craggy hand circled Vera's wrist, tightening with surprising force. "You mind yourself, girl. You know the Nords rule Markarth, and us Bretons wiggle under them, and that ain't no good foundation for any sort of alliance, whether work or marriage. He might not be from the Reach, child, but don't be fooled — a man with a tooth for power and the means to taste it never forgets the flavor." She folded the empty sack of feed and stuffed it into her apron, a rattly sigh shaking her shoulders. "Bah. Enough lecturin' for one morning, eh? I like you, lass. And I'd hate to have Lovinar's spirit haunt me in my old age should something bad happen. Come, now, before the rest of 'em wake up. I'll feed you some breakfast."

Vera smiled and leaned the broom against the wall. "Thank you, Gwynara. For the advice, too."

"Don't go all mushy, now. And it's beans," the old woman threatened, "so see how grateful you are in a few hours when your guts go rumbly."

They left a little before dawn. Enmon, with Sero's assistance, loaded the cart with ore and lumber, stacking crates of juniper berries and small woven handicrafts his wife had made — blankets and aprons and children's socks.

The horse, broad-boned and shaggy and made for the plow, muzzled curiously at Vera's offered apple before gobbling it up, snorting into the frigid air, and butting her hand for more treats. She patted its neck and swung her pack into the carriage. The miner's wife and young daughter stood a few feet away. The little girl eyed her father dolefully, her eyelids still heavy with sleep. Daddy's girl, Vera guessed. Wouldn't miss her father's departure even if it meant waking up too early. The child leaned into her mother, for warmth and comfort, and pouted like it was going out of business. Mena, too, had a pinched look about her — though her facial tattoos gave her a permanently mournful appearance, so the expression beneath it was hard to read.

"What should I bring you back, little lark?" Enmon asked the kid.

A vague memory of Martha's stories floated up — they read to each other in the evenings, and Martha hoarded myths and legends and fairytales, bartering for books no one else had any use for, getting them for a fraction of the cost. "They're coded, you know?" she had confided once, a rare smile playing in the corner of her mouth, tucked away, like a secret. "It's mostly metaphor, or allegory, but if you unpack the symbolism…" Said, at the table, had nodded in agreement.

There had been one about a little girl asking her merchant father to bring her a special red flower. Martha had explained it — something about the symbolism of losing one's virginity. Weird echoes of a world where such things had value. Vera got a different moral out of that story: don't ask for things that are hard to get, for something that will put the person doing the foraging in danger. Stick to the route you know. Update your maps.

"Can you get me new brushes, daddy? Mine are all used up."

"Aye, little artist, that I can. Go see if aunt Gwyn has anything she needs me to bring back."

"Yes, daddy." The girl took off towards the veranda.

Enmon jumped down from the cart, and went to whisper something into his wife's ear. Mena half-smiled and half-glared, a light blush coloring her cheeks, and poked her husband in the ribs.

Vera turned away, to give them some privacy. Undnar was chatting with Ainethach some ten feet away, casting the occasional benevolent look at the proceedings.

He does absolutely minimal work, she thought, Gwynara's admonition about men with a taste for power scratching under the floorboards of her mind, like mice. Instead, she found herself watching Sero lifting crates, her eyes trailing over the way the muscles in his neck stood out with the effort, to the thin sheen of sweat that made his skin look almost opalescent, like polished moonstone. The soft morning light was kind to him, softening his angles and sharp edges.

He turned, caught her looking, and winked. "Sleep well, partner?"

Vera shoved the memory of using him as a mental prop for her bedtime activities as far down as it would go — which apparently wasn't very far, because something about her expression struck him as curious, and he narrowed his eyes.

"Well enough, once the storm eased." Yeah, you could call it that. Metaphors and what have you. "You?"

"If you ignore all that snoring…" His seemed more relaxed this morning, his eyes twinkling with humor. He passed her on his way to another crate, his shoulder brushing against hers, as if on accident. "Had half a mind to knock on your door, if we're honest. Would've been nice to have some quiet."

It was right there. Oh, but he'd practically given her the point. "Are you?"

He cocked an interrogative eyebrow as he lugged the last crate back.

"Quiet, that is."

A flash of white teeth, something supremely cocky about his little swagger. "If necessary," he trailed, speculative. He pushed the crate into the carriage bed, and leaned his back against the side of the cart. Enmon and Mena had gone off to talk to Gwynara, and Undnar was still debating something with Ainethach. No one was paying them much attention. "You, on the other hand, are not."

Fucking hell. Vera narrowed her eyes. "You're bluffing."

"Am I, now?" His lips curled in a rather knowing smile.

"Any reason you were skulking around in the rain, and listening at doors? Undnar snores like a dragon, so you should be used to it by now — so it wasn't that. Or were you... looking for some privacy?"

He grinned, wicked and sharp, but with an abrupt sweetness to it, like a strong spiced wine. "Oh, I was." He paused, dragging it out. "Bluffing, that is."

Vera groaned. Bastard.

"I'll concede you the earlier point, if you'd like. But that leaves me with at least two, if I'm not mistaken. Where are we at, Hlakhes?"

That nickname again, and again with that very private lilt, like something you tuck away for good luck. Vera crossed her arms over her chest, and cocked her head to the side, taking his measure. Even his body language was relaxed. Heh. Maybe someone else had found a little private corner to take the edge off, hmm? "Presumptuous, aren't you? Who says you should claim the credit?"

His eyes narrowed briefly, registering something like vexed surprise. "My point," Vera smiled sweetly.

He laughed, low and dark. And then he detached himself from the cart and stalked closer, his hand shooting out to capture hers before she could so much as squeak. He forced her fingers to uncurl, pressing his own palm flat against hers, and examining the evidence thus produced — long, strong digits, callused with sword work. Yes, yes, he's got nice hands, focus, you nitwit.

"Next time, should you need… a hand, you know where to find me." His eyes darted to hers, but snagged on her mouth, lingering there for a second too long. Vera exploited it immediately — a quick flick of the tongue, and a knowing wink as his pupils dilated and his breath caught on the exhale.

"Gotcha."

"Hmm." Low and gravely, but he dropped her hand quickly. He busied himself with rolling a smoke. "Ten-eight."

The road to Markarth was surprisingly pleasant. Undnar and Enmon chatted about commerce, the miner all too happy to have a captive audience for his concerns over his livelihood and his family. "Got any kids, then?" he asked the Nord.

"None that I've been told about," Undnar volunteered cheerfully, "but I'm hoping that'll change, Mara willing. Fine family, you have, my friend. Beautiful wife, and a bright little girl — makes a man envious for the blessings of the Mother-Goddess." He turned to the back of the cart, where Sero and Vera rode, perched awkwardly on top of the crates. "Isn't that right, Snowberry?"

Vera looked up, trying to compose her face into an approximation of bored indifference. "I'm sure your travels will take you to Riften eventually, and then you could query the Goddess herself for her favor."

Don't let the door hit you on the ass on your way out, either.

Undnar squinted suspiciously, trying to pry beneath her expression. Vera shrugged it off, turning her eyes to the road. To pass the time, she'd been trading quiet, inoffensive sounding quips about neutral topics with the Dunmer. Such as the weather (that one had been Sero's idea — watching clouds for a variety of obscene shapes and sexual positions, while drawing on absurdist metaphors to make it sound like something other than it was — she won that one fair and square, biting back a cackle when the Dunmer absolutely lost it at "Fearless Shieldmaiden Conquering a Squash, an Epic in Three Acts.") When they ran out of clouds, they moved on to the merits of mining ore, to the intricacies of cave exploration, and to the techniques used for pounding different kinds of ingredients, before getting themselves embroiled in an animated debate about the merits of swords vs ranged weapons (he won himself three points with that one, to her two). The score, as far as Vera could tell, was 20 to 19 (in her favor) — mostly achieved through combining discrete non-verbal cues with double-entendre. By the time they stopped for lunch, the merc had prudently occupied himself with sharpening his blade — after placing his pack in his lap, an awkward and likely uncomfortable proposition — and looked at anything but her. He didn't eat, either. Vera tucked away her own portion of the food into her satchel, and wandered off to a patch of canis root to dig up the plants for Bothela. When she returned, Enmon had taken the horse to the river to water it, Sero's blade looked sharp enough to split a hair lengthwise, and Undnar was busy scarfing down the last of the food.

Once they were back in the cart, she split her bean patty in half, and quickly shoved it at the Dunmer. He looked at her with an odd expression, but accepted the offering with a short bob of his head. Vera narrowed her eyes as the Dunmer bit into his share of the bean cake. The realization hit her like a brick to the head. She leaned forward, pretending to check on the ropes that secured the crates on his side of the cart, close enough to bring her lips to his ear. "Has to be given, doesn't it? As in, formally offered. Why?"

He said nothing, his lips pressing into a hard line, but his eyes trailed her all the way back to her seat. "Eighty one to go, partner."

"Eighty," Vera corrected with a disapproving glare.

"What are you two counting back there?" Undnar piped up, half-turning, his red mane aflame with the rays of the afternoon sun. "I don't pay you to gamble your money away, sellsword."

"Oh, don't fret, Undnar," the Dunmer agreed, an acrimonious edge to his voice. "I never gamble with money."

Vera had hoped that once they were in the city, Undnar would pay her right away, but of course, he did no such thing. "I'll have your coin tomorrow morning, bright and early, Snowberry, or may Zenithar strike me dead where I stand," the Nord exclaimed, but his attention was on the bustle of people around them, a greedy glint in his eyes. Market day populated Markarth with a hundred merchants' stalls — bright splashes of color against the grey stones, clinging to the rocks like cliffside nests. The smell of spices and foodstuffs almost overpowered the stench from the smelters. "Take the evening off, we'll talk business tomorrow. And do tell your other employer that I'll be retaining your services — and don't forget to thank her for the recommendation." He grinned, jovial, positively twinkling with pleasure. "I'll come fetch you, aye?"

Vera repressed the urge to flip him the bird. She'd talk to Bothela, alright, and spill the whole sordid ordeal, and then, maybe, between the two of them, they'll come up with a solution. She said goodbye to Enmon, and searched the crowd for Sero, but the merc was nowhere in sight.

She gathered her things and elbowed her way to the apothecary, wondering idly whether Yngvar would take a bigger cut from the market day business, like he did last time. She still needed arrows — she'd drop off her stuff, and then head out to see if some of the Bosmer hunters brought their wares. A small part of her wondered if she'd see Faendal — he had mentioned he sometimes traveled to Markarth to sell his leatherwork, but that was before his intent to permanently settle in a nice, quaint village.

Vera yanked on the door handle — and found the apothecary locked. She tried again. Sometimes, the damn thing jammed — Ghorza kept promising to come by and fix it, but the smith could never seem to find the time. No luck. She knocked — and then banged with her fist — but no answer came. As she tilted her head to put her ear to the door, her eyes landed on a small notice, the piece of parchment anchored by a crooked nail driven into a crack in the rock.

"Citizens of Markarth,

By order of Justiciar Ondolemar, the Hag's Cure is closed until investigations into illegal activities are completed. Arnleif and Sons Trading Company will fill out alchemical orders until further notice. Should you have questions or concerns, please address them to the Jarl's steward."

Vera tore the note from the wall, and read it again, as if it would change its content on a second read. Predictably, it didn't.

Fucking hell. What now?

* * *

_A million thanks for reading, following, and sharing your thoughts 3 Have you figured out what Teldryn's deal is yet? ;)_

_Next up: Swimming with the sharks_

_You can also follow this story on AO3, where I update it somewhat more on time. archiveofourown org and then just add /__works/20168293/chapters/47782804_


	10. Chapter 10

Vera found Ghorza at the smithy, in the middle of lecturing Tacitus on the generally accepted shape nails were supposed to take. To hear the Orsimer say it, the boy had a knack for botching everything he touched, including the simplest projects. He was enduring the lecture with a resigned look — no longer mortified, just creaking under the weariness of his own internalized incompetence. It might have been different with another smith, but the kid didn't seem to know when to call it quits and try his hand at something else — or apprentice with someone who didn't live through her craft like it was woven into her every breath. Vera shoved the thought aside — not her problem. Everyone had the right to fuck up their life the way they saw fit. She caught Ghorza's attention with a quick wave of her hand and a tilt of her head, requesting a private chat.

The smith's eyes narrowed, but she nodded before turning to Tacitus. "Do us both a favor, boy, and go take a break. Go see if Kerah wants the leftover leather scraps, and tell her I have an order for a gold inlay on a dagger hilt I'll be sending to her next week."

Tacitus brightened visibly, shot a curious but rather grateful glance at Vera, and bounded off to the jeweler's with commendable speed, up the steep stone staircase and out of view.

Ghorza leaned her elbows on the granite parapet, her eyes idly tracking the smelter workers below. They would have relative privacy — between the rumble of the river, and the pulse of the lower city's unceasing labor, a conversation in the smithy, for all its exposed location, was a private affair. "Let me guess. You're here about Bothela. And before you ask, no, I am not getting involved with this."

Vera put down her pack at the foot of the parapet, stretched her aching shoulders, and leaned her hip against the low wall. She joined Ghorza in her contemplation of the scenic view, dividing her attention between the smith and the two staircases that led to the forge to keep an eye out for surprise visitors.

She hadn't expected the Orsimer to jump into the fray — that's not how Markarth worked. You kept your head low, and you waited for the dust to settle. Assistance was offered, of course, but it wasn't something you carried on a platter like a stuffed pig, while the crowd rejoiced at your heroic deeds. Not how it worked for the locals, anyway. Sure, there was always the odd adventurer strolling into town, loud as could be about solving everyone's problems in one fell swoop. But for those who lived in Markarth, help was something you traded behind closed doors, when no one was looking.

That Ghorza would preempt the potential request meant one of two things: the matter was more trivial than it looked, or — more likely — it was much more serious. One way or another, verbalizing the unspoken rules meant bad news, however you cut it.

"I'm not asking you to get involved, Ghorza." Below them, Molosh gro-Shugurz was bellowing at one of the smelter workers, a bit perfunctorily by the looks of his body language — more a pro-forma effort at keeping his underlings suitably cowed, rather than any genuine anger. "But I wouldn't mind knowing what happened, since I wasn't there for it. And I need a spare key."

Ghorza shook her head in performative befuddlement. "Still refusing to carry your own key when you venture out? Are you sure you aren't from Riften?"

Vera shrugged. Maybe, at some point, she should put more work into concocting a credible backstory — something that would explain her habits of caution without raising undue suspicion. "It's just sensible, Ghorza. You know how recognizable Markarth keys are — anyone looting my corpse would find a distinctive key and a bunch of alchemy ingredients. Even an idiot bandit could put two and two together, let alone any thief worth their salt."

"With that attitude to your own death, you'd fit right in with an Orc stronghold." The smith grumbled a resigned sigh. "Fine. I'll hand you my locksmith spare, but if you get caught going in, this better not come back to me. And if anyone asks, I'll say you stole it. I get enough lip from the damn Nords — it helps that Moth is the Jarl's personal smith, but it doesn't mean we're untouchable."

Vera nodded her gratitude. "If it comes to that, I'll corroborate. Do you know what happened?"

Ghorza shrugged. "The usual, is what happened. One of Thonar's little 'celebrations' went sour, some girl got hurt. Nothing new there, if it hadn't turned out that she was a Thalmor informant — or that's what I'm guessing, anyway. So Ondolemar put pressure on the Jarl, and the Jarl did what he always does, which is to find some third party to take the blame."

"What does Bothela have to do with any of it?"

Ghorza shot her a mocking look. "Oh, come, now. We both know what she sells to those damned Silver-Bloods, Malakath rip them. Don't get me wrong, I'm not judging. Coin is coin, no matter whose purse it comes from. Thonar blamed it on his 'tonic' — said it had made him addled — and the Jarl agreed to an investigation."

Vera crossed her arms over her chest and pushed the simmering anger back below the surface. Ghorza was practical — but she wasn't coldhearted. "And when a smith sells a dagger that's used to cut someone's throat open, is that the smith's fault, too? They can't possibly think accusing Bothela is reasonable."

The Orsimer shrugged, dismissing the analogy. "Maybe in a place where the Jarl's not trying to sit on two thrones at once — with his bits dangling in between for any skeever to nibble — someone might even care about what's 'reasonable,' and what isn't. Sure would be nice to live in a place like that."

Vera shuffled in place, the restless energy building up like steam in a closed container. "Have they set bail, at least?"

"The usual two hundred — which should tell you that as long as the Jarl's steward is in charge of this business, Bothela won't go to Cidhna. Raerek's been barking up her tree for the better part of the last thirty years, the stubborn old fool." The Orsimer shot Vera a narrow-eyed look. "Of course, it doesn't help that Bothela's nephew's cracking rocks and getting himself new skin ornaments from Uzroga's whip for running with the Forsworn."

Vera nodded. Bothela kept that little bit of information under wraps most of the time, but she did send the weekly charity package to the mine — nothing fancy to draw the guards' interest, just some simple bread and cheese, and a few stamina and healing potions. It probably never made it to Odvan, but the old woman was set in her ways. "Two hundred for Bothela. And the same for Muiri, I assume?"

"Yeah. The guards sure know in what direction the wind blows. A kinless girl doesn't fetch much coin. Not as far as bail goes, anyway."

Vera's tightened her fists. Goddamnit. No point in riling against Ghorza — that's just how the world worked. If screaming at it in fury could change anything, they'd all be frolicking in flowers and rainbows by now.

"Will you spot me fifty septims, if I can scrape the rest together?" Between what Undnar had already paid her, and what he still owed, she would still come up short — but not that short. Provided, of course, that her little cache in the apothecary hadn't been discovered and ransacked — or, pardon, "confiscated as evidence." "You know I'm good for it."

"I'll think about it. And if I do — and I'm not saying I will — if anyone asks-"

"I stole it. I know."

The Orc nodded. "Glad we're agreed. Anyway. Steel won't shape itself." She reached for the keyring dangling from her hip, and she unclipped one of the massive, ornate keys before passing it to Vera in an underhanded gesture. "Won't be long until dark. I'd wait until after the evening shift before sneaking in, if I were you."

Vera pocketed the key and shouldered her pack. "Thanks, Ghorza."

The smith motioned for her to wait. "One more thing. You've been asking about Calcelmo, as I recall. Well, he's back — as of two days ago. Came back in a hurry, too, complaining to anyone who'd listen that some rival bookworm's been encroaching on his research. They're planning a dig in Nchuand-Zel — got an order for mining equipment just this morning. I bet he won't say no to volunteers, though I'd hurry, if I were you — he's got most of the local layabouts badgering him for a job on the expedition."

Vera mulled it over as she made her way to the inn. Maybe she could trap two rats with one snare — if Calcelmo was hiring anyway, perhaps Lovinar's letter wouldn't matter. And if so, then the money could go towards the bail — she'd be back at square one, but what was the alternative? Getting her money from Undnar and ransoming her letter — and "sweetening the deal" to cover the difference? And abandoning Bothela and Muiri to whatever passed for the local justice system? Trying to have her cake and eat it too by asking Undnar for an advance on the next job — and thus cementing what would likely turn out to be the mother of all bad arrangements with gold? Not like she could extricate herself out of that entanglement in any obvious way as things stood, but still. There wasn't an overabundance of mirrors in her new world, but she'd have to look at her own mug eventually. Making sure she didn't have the urge to retch every time she did it seemed like good policy, as far as ethics went.

If Calcelmo was back — and if he was putting together an expedition — then that meant Vorstag and the rest of the sellsword riff raff were lining up in the Understone Keep and arguing over whose weapon was bigger. She could maybe leverage her bow — and her mapping skills — and throw in cooking and some basic alchemy to tip the scales, but without a recommendation either from Bothela or from Lovinar, the Altmer wizard would probably take one look at her, and just laugh. Even if she did get her foot in the door, everything about Dwemer ruins screamed "stay out!" — and when you didn't, it zapped you, in case you were too dense to get the message.

That left one course of action.

The inn was hot, rowdy, and chock-full of people — merchants and hunters and an assortment of other travelers, everyone descending upon the city for market day and eager to liquefy some of their earnings. Frabbi bustled across the floor with a tray full of ales, and even Hreinn, who usually limited himself to pushing dust from one corner of the tavern to the other, had been bent to the task of serving customers.

Vera made her way to the bar, trying to see whether she could snag some secluded spot as she waited for full dark, before trying her luck at the apothecary. There was the risk of running into Undnar of course — by now, he would have likely gotten the news about the Hag's Cure, which meant that it was not in Vera's interest to run into the Nord. Nothing says "shameless exploitation" quite like an underling that got themselves backed into a corner.

Kleppr was apparently in a generous mood — he poured her ale tight, without too much foam — and handed her a bowl of breadsticks. "On the house. For your steady patronage."

"They're yesterday's, aren't they?" Vera chuckled, but snatched the bowl the second Kleppr's offended moue and outstretched hand signaled the potential loss of free food. "No, no, I'll take them — thank you kindly."

He pursed his lips, but looked placated enough. "You can thank my venomous darling of a wife, who seems to have taken it upon herself to plump you up, tiny bird-like thing that you are." He leaned forward. "Pointless task, if you ask me. You eat like three Nord Companions — where it all goes is anyone's guess."

Vera paid the barkeep — the little stash of coins in her coat's liner pocket was starting to feel unpleasantly light — and she turned to scan the room. Her favorite quiet corner — with a good view of the entrance, and close to the kitchens (and, therefore, to the service door) — was occupied. Her brief flare of irritation was quickly replaced with cautious curiosity as she recognized the chitin suit. Sero, strangely enough, was alone — and judging by the absence of a second mug, or any kind of plate on the table, Undnar was not around either. The Dunmer was watching the room, but he wasn't paying her any particular attention — if he had spotted her, he wasn't advertising it.

She made her way over, avoiding elbows and shoulders in an attempt to keep her ale from spilling. The merc turned sharply in her direction when she was a few feet away, but his features did not register surprise — instead, there was a hard vertical line between his brows, and his eyes had narrowed in a combination of impatience and some other emotion that bore a suspicious resemblance to concern.

He motioned with his head, offering the seat next to him, and he pushed the spare chair with his foot to angle it towards the room in apparent anticipation of her habits. "Much as I would enjoy a drink with my favorite outlander, I suggest you don't linger. I doubt Undnar's 'activities' will… ehem…" -his cough was entirely fake- "... tie him up for too long."

Vera took the offered chair, and pushed it back against the wall, scooting further into the shadows. She took a breadstick, and passed the rest of the bowl to Sero, her eyes afixed on a knot of hunters jostling each other by the bar. One of the backs — and the white ponytail above it — looked very familiar indeed. "I take it your boss is sowing seeds of friendship among the locals again?"

"Not… as such," he trailed, amused irritation coloring his voice. "Well, you are the expert on local customs — you tell me: what does one visit the Temple of Dibella for?"

Vera almost spat out her ale, but caught herself. Undnar really didn't waste any time. "Never had the… pleasure, so I'm honestly not sure. Wait…" she narrowed her eyes "... are you joking?"

Sero grinned. "Oh, I never joke. And speaking of bosses, I hear your other employer has landed in some… trouble. The locals do love their gossip."

And, shit. If Sero knew, then so did Undnar.

With her peripheral vision, Vera caught the merc biting into a breadstick, a small groan of pleasure escaping him as he chewed.

"What do you eat when I'm not around?"

He ignored the question. "Would be better with scuttle, but I'll take what I can get."

"And what exactly is 'scuttle'?"

"Vvanderfell's local pride and joy," he said, the gentle mockery giving his voice a sing-song quality, but underneath it, something else lurked — the brittle edges of sublimated nostalgia. "Similar to a Cyrodill soft cheese, I'm given to understand. Made from a local insect, of course, but don't let that intimidate you. It's fantastic."

Vera nodded, taking another bite of her breadstick. "That's the thing with cooking bugs, though. It's all about the spices." The hunter that looked like Faendal turned — and Vera released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. It wasn't the Bosmer. It brought an odd mixture of disappointment and relief.

"An old acquaintance?" Sero's gaze had followed hers. The lazy sarcasm was back — if there was a reaction beneath it, Vera couldn't parse it.

"No. And they're yesterday's, by the way. The breadsticks."

The merc lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I'm not picky."

She turned to take a look at him, now that the mystery of the familiar ponytail had been resolved in the negative. "How, exactly, do you survive? I'm guessing Undnar used to offer the food, but now he doesn't. I want to know why. And I'm guessing you can't buy it either, can you? What about hunting? If it has to be offered, then wouldn't that technically count as a gift from Hircine? And why is the liquid diet fair game?"

Sero took a sip of his own ale, his red gaze raking over her in unapologetic assessment. "Any more rhetorical questions? No? My turn, then. You are competent with the bow, but it's not your favored weapon. You stutter as you reach for it when you feel threatened — until you remember, and readjust. What did you carry, before? Was it a staff?"

Vera sighed. "Teldryn…"

His lips quirked before he turned his gaze away, back to observing the tavern. "Hmm," he hummed, a sharp vertical line bracketing his smile.

"What?" She should have known better — this was not the time to get distracted with their little game — but best intentions, and all that.

"Something about how you trail your vowels. Curious accent. Not that I mind…"

Shit. This wasn't where she thought he'd go — and the damn Dunmer was entirely too observant. She had hoped the differences in her pronunciation would provide a ready-made way to map her into her new world — let people make their own assumptions from there. That it didn't was potentially an issue — then again, no one else had commented, so perhaps this was just the Dunmer's peculiarity. Vera took a sip of ale, and forced a chuckle. "Versatile, aren't you. Is a healthy appreciation for linguistics another one of your hidden talents?"

He glanced at her, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Oh, no. I just enjoy the way your lips wrap around it." And then he caught her expression and chuckled quietly. "The name, that is. Another point for me, hmm?"

Bastard. He had used the bit about the accent as a distraction — but he left himself open to a counter-attack. "If you want to offer suggestions about how to best position my mouth, do let me know."

Ha. There it was, that slight twitch to his jaw.

"As long as we're still talking about diction, of course."

It took a second, but then it registered. Louche puns aside, she watched his throat work around a swallow.

"One for you, and… two for me," Vera grinned.

The Dunmer shook his head, but his smile reached all the way to his eyes, and then something about his expression softened briefly, before rearranging itself back to the habitual sardonic twinkle. He almost looked wistful — like how one looks at the sea, that crisp horizon line beckoning with the promise of a land less broken, but no boat to cross the waters. Whatever it was, it caught her off guard again, snagging on something deeply buried and entirely too troubling to consider.

"Your round, hlakhes. And you really are trouble, aren't you?"

Vera averted her eyes, letting her gaze trail over her surroundings, as if seeing them anew — she had lost time, her attention rerouted, without the obligatory remainder allocated to safety. Yeah. Trouble indeed.

"Speaking of which..." Sero munched through another breadstick, chasing it down with his ale. "Undnar will be back soon — I suggest you do not accidentally run into him." He paused. "He was rather pleased about the apothecary, as you might imagine. Less pleased about the Altmer scholar's return."

The decision came at her half-formed, but the question passed her lips before she could think better of it. "What would it cost me to ask you for help, Teldryn?"

It caught him off guard, but he found his footing quickly. "Depends. Did you finally decide that you might need a hand?" He made it sound so nonchalant that Vera found herself snorting, despite the low thrumming of dread.

"Not a hand. Just your eyes, and potentially your tongue."

Now that got Demon Chops to lose some of his air of bored insouciance. He shot her a sharp look, masking the rest of his reaction with a rather large gulp of ale. "I…" He cleared his throat. "Damn it. This is not my evening, is it? Remind me not to try my hand at gambling."

"One point for me. But no, not that — don't get me wrong, it sounds like a much more pleasant way to spend a few hours than what I have in mind." Vera leaned to the side — to snatch the last breadstick, and to bring herself within whispering range. "I need to get into the apothecary. I can do it by myself, but I'd feel better if someone could run interference if I get unwanted attention from the guards. Bullshit them into looking the other way while I get through the door, that sort of thing. And give me a signal for when it's safe to come back out."

The merc leaned back in his chair, a speculative look on his face. "You're right — it does sound rather less pleasant."

And, double shit. She'd helped him escape the Forsworn — but then he had kept her from drowning, and then from freezing. They were even — no debt to leverage. "So. How much will it cost me?"

"For you?" He mulled it over, the seconds stretching. "Why, I'll do it for free. Partner."


	11. Chapter 11

The night was still buzzing with activity — merchants packed up their stalls and folded their tents for travel, food vendors peddled the last of their wares with the promise of lower prices and "the best skeever tail soup outside of High Rock." The lower city had come to life too — the day after Market Day was the only holiday the miners and smelter workers could expect during First Seed — and only because the overseers liked to nurse their hangovers. A knot of people had gathered around a fiddler — Omluag, from what Vera could see, was playing some fast, jaunty tune that had his audience clapping their hands and tapping their feet in time to the music.

They kept to the shadows, Sero falling in step next to her, silent safe for the soft creaking of his armor — a strangely dry, almost scuttling sound. Vera lead them through the smithy, empty now safe for a stone-drunk Degaine who, as was his habit, slept with his back propped against the warm stones of the forge. She put her finger to her lips as they stepped around the pile of rags. Degaine was a belligerent loudmouth, but he wasn't as toothless as he looked — most of the professional beggars in Markarth had a loose affiliation with the Thieves Guild, and the ragged Breton was no exception, from what she could tell.

"Charming place," Sero muttered as they descended the steps towards the apothecary. On their left, the entrance to Cidhna was pitch black — a great, yawning maw cut into the stone, as if the mountain itself had frozen mid-bite.

The brazier above the Hag's Cure was unlit. In the deep shadows of the stone walls, the door glinted faintly with Masser's reddish glow. Vera allowed herself a relieved exhalation — so far, they had encountered no guards. Perhaps this would be easier than she had anticipated.

They stopped by the old juniper tree growing in front of the shop — most of its berries had been summarily plucked, despite the city ordinance not to touch the decorative flora. Bothela's take on the subject went along the lines of "well, I water it, don't I?"

Vera turned to the Dunmer. "All right. Just, keep watch while I'm in there. When it's safe to come out, pretend you're a customer, knock three times — you won't get a response, of course — and then make to leave. I'll meet you at the smithy."

Sero nodded. "Anything else?"

"If-"

She didn't get the chance to finish. They turned at the same time towards the faint sound of approaching footsteps, the staccato rhythm of clanking metal punctuating the gait. Flickering torchlight fell on the cobblestones behind the bend in the wall.

"Ho! Is someone there?" The guard's voice was gruff, the harsh consonants of Nordic speech slightly slurred with wine. "Come out, you dirty thief, I can hear you skulking about!"

Shit!

Vera froze, and then, with a monumental effort of will, and in advance of any coherent thought — anything to shatter the paralysis of panic — she acted on the first idea that popped into her head. She hooked her hand into the collar of the merc's armor, apparently managing to catch him off guard, and then yanked him down to her level before pressing her lips to his, a flat non-kiss that landed askew, but would hopefully deflect the guard's suspicions. Sero made a muffled sound of confused surprise as she shoved at him, but he caught on quickly enough, backing up against the wall. His hands came to her hips, drawing her closer. And from there, the merc decided to add verisimilitude to their little performance, because the kiss turned real enough in no time at all. Focus, you idiot, what are you doing?! Instead, Vera answered him in kind. He groaned, impatient, vaguely accusatory, and he brought one hand to the back of her head, his fingers fisting into her hair. The other hand went to her throat — neither a caress nor a threat, but something in between, sweet with its own annulment. His thumb rested against the pulse point as he coaxed her into a deeper kiss, the heat of his mouth and the faint taste of some foreign, exotic herb on his tongue drowning out everything else, even the insistent thrum of panic.

"Hey! Dibella's glittering arse, fucking Market Day. I didn't sign up for this... Hey! I'm talking to you! Identify yourselves at once."

The lizard brain wasn't inclined to listen — it was much more interested in trying to extract another frustrated groan out of the Dunmer. Vera shuddered as Sero broke the kiss with a final opportunistic nip at her lower lip. He brought his arms around her — a performance of protectiveness that had the happy side-effect of allowing Vera to tuck her face against his shoulder in a bid for anonymity disguised as embarrassment. It put her back to the guard — unpleasant, but better than the alternative. She was a familiar face — the Dunmer wasn't.

He looked up at the guard. "Apologies, sera." Nothing particularly apologetic about it — a bit short of breath and irritated at being interrupted, yes, but not sorry in the slightest. Hopefully, it wouldn't gaud the guard into immediate hostility. "My associate and I got…" he cleared his throat. "Carried away."

"I can see that plain enough," the fellow grunted. "Doesn't tell me who in Oblivion you are. We don't like outsiders here in Markarth."

"Travelers, sera. Our employer sent us to your city to see where he might best... apply his gold."

"Hmm. You don't look like a merchant, Grey Skin. Don't try to fool me."

Sero didn't miss a beat. "Oh, we're not merchants. You see, my patron is… a charitable soul. Likes to spend his coin on worthy causes. If you know what I mean."

She had to give it to the Dunmer. He delivered his bullshit with an air of such unflappable confidence that Vera wondered briefly whether what he was saying was actually true, at least on some level — before the absurd mental image of Undnar championing widows, orphans, and hugging stray kittens dispelled the illusion.

The guard weighed this information, and found it a bit light. "Who's the lass, then? I'd say Breton by the size." Vera could almost feel the accusatory digit pointed at her back. Double shit. At least the guard was alone — probably had drawn the short straw, or owed a debt. No one liked to work when everyone else celebrated. "We got laws against solicitation, you know. Should just bring you two in, let the captain sort it out."

Oh, of course he would have gone there. In Markarth, Breton meant local, and it meant poor. Had Sero been a Nord, the guard would have probably let it slide — wouldn't want to interfere with a fellow's Divines-given right to have a bit of fun on Market Day. As it stood, if there was indeed a law against "solicitation," it was certainly applied selectively.

"As I said, serjo, she is my partner," the Dunmer replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "There are places that a man would not be as welcome, so..." he shrugged and pivoted them around before turning to face the guard again — incidentally maneuvering Vera closer to the wall while shielding her from the Nord's suspicious squint. She bent her head, hoping the shadows and her hood would obscure the rest. "We work as a team. Help our patron identify where to make his donations. Of course, he could simply contribute to the temple — but he likes a more… hands on approach."

A hands-on approach indeed, when it came to the Temple of Dibella, anyway. For once, Vera almost found herself wishing for Undnar's presence — if for no other reason than the fact that he was a Nord, and that he had money to throw at problems. Not to mention his talent for stacking heaping piles of bullshit.

The guard shuffled in place before forging on with the interrogation. "So who's this employer of yours, then, hmm?" She could hear the "gotcha" in his voice.

The urge to bolt prickled her back. Instead, to distract herself, Vera focused her gaze on the Dunmer's armor, tracing the pattern of seams and articulated joints. There was something about it, a low pulse, invisible grooves woven deeply into the chitin, right around where the separate plates came together. Familiar. The warm glow of a campfire on a chilly evening, but beyond the surface lattice, it changed to something else — something she couldn't quite get at. Like Lovinar's amulet, but much more complicated.

"Ah, serjo," Sero trailed, with almost convincing regret. "Much as I'd like to share it, our patron prefers to remain anonymous. A well known name, as it were, I'm sure you understand how that poses risks..."

There were two types of guards in Markarth, as far as Vera could tell. A small minority who came to the profession with misguided aspirations of protecting innocents (as rare a species as idealistic guards) and with grand ambitions of stopping crime (like trying to empty the sea with a teaspoon) — and the vast majority, content to line their pockets with bribes and turn a blind eye. If she had been the praying sort, this would have been a good time to apply herself to the task. As it stood, Vera simply crossed her fingers and hoped probability would be on their side.

"Well…" the Nord harrumphed, "I suppose if you wanted to put in a good word with your employer, the city guard could sure use some new equipment. The Jarl's coffers are a bit light, what with the damn Forsworn raids."

"Savages," Sero agreed with perfectly authentic distaste.

"There's still the matter of the...uh... curfew."

Oh, bullshit. If there was a curfew, that was news to Vera — unless, of course, you were an outsider to the city, and didn't know any better.

"And I'm certain there is a fixed fine for breaking it." Sero somehow managed to keep most of the bitter irony below the surface.

"Sure is. Fo- Fifty septims."

Greedy bastard. Fifty septims would be enough to get her to four hundred and bail out both Muiri and Bothela. Fucking Markarth.

The Dunmer nodded, showed his empty palms — no weapons — before reaching into a satchel tucked against his hip. A convenient inside pocket, Vera guessed, sewn into the back of his tobacco pouch.

"I only carry thirty with me. Will that... do? One can never be too careful. I hear there are thieves about."

She tensed. The lazy drawl was back, edged with a warning.

Both the irony and the threat were entirely lost on the guard. "And the lass? The way I see it, it's only fair that she chip in." He tried to peek behind Sero's back. "Show your face, girl, let's have a look at you."

Oh, but she didn't like the sound of that — or the insinuation that had crept into the corrupt guardsman's tone — one bit. Nothing quite like a little humiliation along with your illegitimately earned gold to really put the shine on an evening well spent. That was Markarth's finest for you. Dull as bricks, but with a cruel streak to make up for it.

"Noisy tonight, isn't it?" Sero said suddenly, his voice dropping to a low, vaguely amused rasp. "Can hardly hear anything over that music." His body language shifted. "I'm surprised that Markarth guards don't patrol in pairs. Is that… customary, serjo?"

This time, Markarth's Finest took an evaluative look at the Dunmer, made some quick calculations — and got the hint. "Uh, I suppose, since you're new to the city, I'll let you off with a lighter…uh… fee. As a sign of Markarth's hospitality, and all that." He extended his hand, and Sero placed a satchel into it, the faint clinking announcing the contents. The guard didn't bother counting, just pocketed the cash, and took a step towards the stairs. "The Silver Blood Inn has rooms and food," he admonished. "I'm going to finish my route, and when I'm back, I better not find you two here or I'll bring you in for lolligaggin. Stay out of trouble in my city, Grey Skin."

Final slur delivered, he ambled off, down the staircase and towards better lit and less lethal-looking prospective contributors to his budget.

Sero stepped away the moment the guard was out of sight. "You best go in before he brings his friends, hlakhes."

Vera nodded. "Thank you. I'll pay you back."

"No need. I would have been surprised if it hadn't ended with a bribe." He paused. "Interesting distraction tactic, by the way. I'd appreciate a warning next time you decide to improvise." Laughter lurked in his voice, along with an odd sort of tension. "Now, there is the matter of deducting points, hmm?"

Vera squinted, trying to discern his expression in the darkness. "Really? Because, if I remember right, the tonsil hockey wasn't my idea, so if I lose points, so do you."

He missed a beat. "Apologies... the what?"

Vera winced. Wrong analogy again. "I wasn't the only one 'improvising,' Sero."

"Oh, that. All part of our original arrangement." She could hear his smirk, even if she couldn't see it. "You did request I use my tongue, as I recall. You never specified how."

Vera snorted. Bastard. "So, just business, eh?"

He hesitated before answering. "Unless we agree on a penalty. I've been on enough slippery slopes to know one when I see it." Said lightly, but with something else behind the words — not regret, exactly, something more complicated.

Vera sighed. Picking at this particular scab might lend some answers, but it would have to wait. They had more immediate problems. "You're right that we need to get moving." She fished out her key. "I'll knock from the other side when I'm ready to leave."

He nodded before leaning against the wall and melting into the shadows. "Don't be too long."

* * *

_Next up: Broken homes and strategizing in the dark_

AN: Folks, thank you for reading and following. I've fallen behind on posting on this site. I primarily post on AO3, and the story is much more up to date there than here, simply because I like the interface a lot better. You don't need an account to leave feedback and subscribe (though I encourage you to get one anyway). You can find my work, including this story, under the pseud "paraparadigm."


	12. Chapter 12

Lighting the torch in the hallway by feel only was no trivial proposition, but after five tries with her flint and steel, the flame sputtered to life. Vera squinted against the sudden glare and forced herself to unclench her teeth — don't panic, keep your shit together — and then she yanked the torch out of its socket, and stalked into the apothecary, her hand on her dagger.

There was a particular feeling with no good name for it that came with the violation of the place you came to know as home. Hard to explain if you never felt it yourself. You could see it in others, clinging to their skin, that knowing. Like mud rubbed into a wound that scarred funny, streaked and patterned and never quite clean afterwards. Two types of feelings, to be exact, depending on the nature of the intrusion. The first type was the worse of the two — small things, snagging on your peripheral vision, subtle and eerie. It left you with ice in the pit of your stomach and a burn in your throat, rage and fear all tangled. A candle holder out of place. Your bed made by someone else's hand. An open window, when it had been locked before — when you remembered, clearly, closing it. Dust and grime smudged with the print of a stranger's boot. And the knowledge, visceral, festering in your guts the second you stepped into the tainted air of a place that was no longer your shelter, that something might be lying dormant, watching you from the shadows. Waiting.

The other one wasn't much better, but it was cleaner. Things turned upside down and ransacked, furniture you touched everyday in the oblivion of routine broken and thus suddenly in sharp focus, as if you were seeing it for the first time, cognizant of it only through its loss. Shattered glass, and torn linens, and broken table legs, like some inhuman force had torn it all up with no care for who lived there — thrown away like it didn't matter, like it wasn't a place where people ate, and slept, and talked, and loved each other the best they could.

It was the second scenario the apothecary had endured, and Vera felt an abstract sort of gratitude. Bad, yeah, but it could have been worse.

She moved quickly, doing her best to ignore the smashed alchemy paraphernalia and the befouled workstation — ingredients had been emptied all around it, powders and liquids caked in clumpy chaos. The gleeful carelessness of violence directed against objects, by proxy, because you couldn't do the same to a body with quite as much impunity, even in Markarth. Or not before that body had been reduced to nothing but a body, anyway. Which happened, of course — to prisoners and criminals and if the gold in your pocket dried up for too long. Some were closer to that line than others to begin with — if you weren't born a Nord, or an Altmer, or with a name to support the weight of your fuck-ups and ill luck.

Vera shoved the pointless musings aside — no time. The bedroom had the air of something eviscerated and left to bleed out on the side of the road. Her mattress was gutted lengthwise, straw and tundra cotton crunching under her feet. She peeked under the bed frame. The chamber pot hadn't been touched. She grinned in the semi-darkness, the burn in her guts stretching her lips around the edges of something feral, full of barbed wire and razor blades. Another feeling she had no good name for, only that it grew on that other sense of loss like a cyst.

So the sacking had likely been carried out by the Justiciar — because the Markarth guards wouldn't have been so prissy about digging around in muck. Amateurs. In Vera's old world, the toilet was the first place you searched for a hidden cache — it was the reason she had improvised with the chamber pot. To her, the water room seemed entirely too obvious. She shoved the pot aside, feeling around for the edges of the loose tile. Still in place. She used her dagger to lift it.

Her satchel of gold hadn't been moved. She pocketed it and hurried to the back room of the shop, where Bothela kept her secrets. The bottle of Cyradill brandy lay in pieces on the stone floor next to the hearth. The key was gone. Still, she checked, just to be sure. Amateurs, but not thatclueless. Bothela's cabinet of precious books stood empty. Someone had pulled out all the shelving — looking for a hidden compartment, no doubt. She turned her back to what was left of the old woman's private domain, before making her way over to the counter.

Maps. She needed to get her maps.

She knew what had happened the second her eyes fell on the empty shelves. Burned. All of it. She could still smell it, now that she had a target to focus on beneath the stench of broken vials — birch-bark sweet, but with an acrid underlay from the more expensive vellum. Every scrap of paper in the place — the formularies, the recipes, even the ledger. She pivoted, stalked to the hearth, prodded the pile of cold ashes with the toe of her boot — fine and fluffy and light grey, like a dove's feathers. They'd feel almost silky if she touched them with her hand. Half a year of her life mapping the Reach. Years of Bothela's life, of careful, loving labor — of caring and hoarding and record keeping, shoulders stooped over a squeaky pen in dim light — all lost to the flames. She swallowed the rage like bile — the howl dwindled to a hiss, still deafening in the empty shop.

Focus. Why burn it all? Had Bothela done it herself? Hiding the evidence — including the one Vera had inadvertently left behind?

No. A set-up, more likely, in the absence of more solid proof. Because nothing spelled "suspicious behavior" like an accusation against a shopkeeper scrambling to wipe all traces of their activities.

She practically ran to the exit, but she stopped herself at the door. Breathe. Dima's voice sounding out a mantra she had internalized like a second skin on the inside of her own, the lynchpin in her collection of prosthetic instincts. Borrowed, one at a time, from those who had shared her road.

She rapped her fingers softly against the metal.

The answering knock came after a few seconds — firm, like it was owed admission. Then, nothing. Vera counted to sixty. Her mind conjured the image of the Dunmer — pacing in performative impatience in front of the apothecary, then turning away with a shrug and strolling back towards the smithy, with that efficient, sparse gait of his — like everything else about him, safe perhaps for his wry humor — no frills, minimalist, pure practicality that translated into grace, but only as a side-effect.

Once she reached the end of her count, she slunk out quietly.

The darkness hugged her like a cloak. At the entrance to the warrens, Omluag had been joined by a percussionist, the drum pulsing in a steady rhythm, bouncing off the stone walls and ricocheting upward in an overlap of echoes. A good-sized crowd had gathered. The tune they carried was slow and wistful, a plaintive, repetitive melody — the wails and sobs of the fiddle weaving around the beat, as if trying to break through its implacable systematicity. Something allegorical about that — about her predicament, about the sort of life Markarth afforded, about how worlds collided and spun back into the vastness of separation, on diverging trajectories, never to meet again. Martha would have known how to wrap the feeling in language, some precise analogy that trapped the emotions like a fly in a glass — Martha, who had always been a better shot with her words than with her battered Beretta. That's not what had killed her, in the end, and maybe there was a moral to that too, but Vera shoved it aside and hurried towards the smithy. Sometimes, she wondered if she trailed her ghosts like a comet trailed its own melt-off.

She found Sero by the grinding wheel, more by feeling than sight — a deeper, denser, stiller shadow among others. A good position to occupy, strategically speaking — close enough to the walkway leading to the lower city. Should a guard arrive, they could bolt down and melt into the crowd of revelers. Her feet carried her forward on automatic and then she stopped, sudden unease scuttling down her spine and curdling in her stomach. This would be an extremely bad time to run into a case of mistaken identity.

"Took you long enough." There was no bite to his tone — wry irony, a note of impatience, but only so that the burden of the underlying reassurance was easier to lift. He stepped forward, his face floating into view in the dim glimmer of the moon. His eyes shone faintly, wine-dark. "Ah." He took one more step and brought his palms to her shoulders. "Easy. You won't be much use in this state."

Vera exhaled. "I'm functional. Lend me your eyes for a bit while I get my shit together." It came out clipped, brittle around the edges and foreign to her ears, like someone flailing at the end of a short rope. She breathed again, forcing her lungs past the shallows.

He chuckled — a quiet, private sound. "You'd make a terrible merchant."

The sharp change of topic lanced through the festering rage, and Vera looked up, trying to discern his expression. She could hear his smile lingering between the words. He had added a pulse of magic to his touch, something green and warm that tasted of summer and baked apples. A calming spell, she guessed. "Pardon?" Not her most intelligent rejoinder, but it'd do. Her head cleared, and the ghosts settled.

"Ask me for something you don't already have." He waited her out, expectant, amusement like a palpable warmth in the air between them.

It wrestled a bark out of her — not quite a laugh, but close enough to it to offer a handhold, and from there, she pulled herself out of her bogged thoughts the rest of the way. For once, she conceded the point gracefully. "You don't give up, do you?"

"I haven't yet." Light, but with a hollow depth, like sounding out a false bottom. He'd given it out on purpose, too.

Vera filed it away — the silent debt between them swelling, the other tally they left uncounted. Her trivial kindnesses of offered food, the correct guess worth more than the accidental boon. Sero's refusal to extract repayment. More than just the thirty septims spent on the bribe, however you cut it.

He wasn't wearing gauntlets. She brought her hand to his, trailing her fingers along his wrist, where the dusting of coarse black hair disappeared into the cuff of his armor. He withstood the caress with a short intake of breath, held, then released. Vera bit back a smirk. "I'll wrestle up desert next time. Least I can do."

He cut his laughter short, but not before it slithered across her skin, smoke and velvet. "Promises…" He made it sound filthy.

Her mouth went suddenly dry. "If you'd like." Passable, but with a hitch — which the Dunmer noticed, of course.

Sero tallied up the point, and then he stilled in hesitation. "If only it were so… simple." She could almost feel the shift — one step forward, one step back, in self-negation. Apparently, she wasn't the only one dancing with invisible ghosts. It was in the way he said it — thoughtful, with regret laced through it, like some bitter medicine to clear one's head. His hands on her shoulders tightened before falling away.

Vera shrugged, trying to ignore the sudden chill he left in his wake. More than the absent heat of his palms — their weight had anchored her, enough to forget that he was no less at the mercy of the waves than she was.

Her turn to toss a rope, then. "So, what's your poison of choice, Teldryn? While we have the benefits of civilization. Sweet-rolls? Boiled cream treat? Those weird-" she snapped her fingers, trying to recollect the term "-I'm blanking on the name — the honey-glazed balls on a skewer?"

His sudden, raspy cackle bounced off the walls before he overrode it with a cough. "Are you trying to make me swear off sweets, hlakhes?"

"Neutralizing the competition." She managed a passable deadpan.

He snorted before flashing her a crooked grin, a crescent of white in the darkness. "Oh, very well, have the point. But mind yourself... partner. One might become liable to steal a taste."

Vera chuckled. "You already stole a taste. There's still the problem of how we divvy up the points for that one."

"I suppose I could be persuaded into a... draw. For the sake of simplifying the calculations, of course." He motioned with his head before she had the chance to argue. "And speaking of calculations, did you retrieve what you were looking for?"

"They hadn't found the money, so yes." Distraction tactics aside, he was right — she had more immediate problems. Their little game had taken her mind off the rage-filled panic, enough to free up some capacity for more organized thought. Point was, it wouldn't be enough. Even if Undnar paid the rest he owed her on time, she could only cover one bail. And if Ghorza decided to loan her the remaining fifty — she'd still owe more: in obligations and knotted social ties and future expectations of exchange, if not in coins. One way or another, the money would be gone, swallowed up by Markarth's habits of extraction. What would remain was what always remained beneath such things — an economy of favors.

The idea struck her with the sort of dull epiphany of the idiotically obvious. She could just ask the Dunmer. See if he'd spot her the difference — allowing her to bypass Undnar, and Ghorza. They were tangled up already. What's one more debt? If she was going to owe money either way, he was the best alternative in an array of shitty option.

"Hmm." The Dunmer's voice had regained its casually mocking veneer. "So it was the gold." Beneath the shield of irony, another note — awfully close to disappointment. "I'd wondered whether perhaps you had gone back for your maps."

That slow, wordless anger from earlier coiled in her stomach. Vera forced her jaw to unclench and kept her tone casual. "Since I figured a pocketful of ashes wouldn't do me much good, I got what I could, yes. Regardless, I'm still fifty short on posting bail."

Below, the wistful tune stopped abruptly, with no clapping to punctuate the end. Someone was crying quietly, the sobs traveling upward in broken echoes before conciliatory voices and gentle hushing, ale-slurred but heartfelt, drowned out the sounds of sorrow. The sudden silence swelled between them.

He shifted in the darkness, though when he finally spoke again, the Dunmer's tone had lost some of its sarcastic glaze. "Let's say you had the remaining fifty. Whom would you bail out first?"

It felt like a test. Or a trick question. Vera squared her shoulders. "Bothela."

She didn't see the cocked eyebrow, but she could swear she heard it in his response. "Curious. Indulge me, why not the Breton girl? From what I can tell, you care about her..."

"I care about them both." Cards on the table. She supposed she owed him that much — if it helped square off the imbalance she was accruing, then she'd toss it into the pot. No point in feigning something you weren't. "If I bail out Muiri first, I'm back to square one, with no money for the second bail, and with someone who will need…" She swallowed back the queasy feeling roiling in her throat. "Care. That I'm not suited to provide." She left it there, in its mess of implications. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the Jarl's uncle oversaw it all. Perhaps he was a decent man, who gave a shit about justice. Perhaps the Thalmor were more civilized than their reputation suggested. Perhaps pigs flew and septims grew on trees like juniper berries. "If I bail out Bothela, then I have her wisdom, and her connections. She might have access to resources I don't have. If I want both of them out as quickly as possible… It's simple math. If I can scrape together fifty septims, I get one out right away, and then-"

"Won't work."

Vera froze. "What do you mean?"

He took a long time to respond. "You cannot get either of them out. I take it there was a search? And they burned the records?"

She nodded, trusting Sero to see the movement in the darkness.

"Your association with Bothela is well known in the city?"

She nodded again. By that point, Vera had a good idea of where this was going. Idiot. She should have thought of this herself — and sooner.

"Curious place, Markarth." The Dunmer leaned back against the wall and busied himself with rolling a smoke. "Reminds me of home. If I were to guess, your employer is caught in a power skirmish between local factions — and like with the Great Houses of Morrowind, I doubt there will be much consideration for… collateral damage." His face flared into view with the flick of his fingers, the small flame illuminating his expression — grave, tense around the eyes. He offered her the rollie, but she shook her head. "The moment you walk into that keep and declare your intent, it won't matter a whit how much gold you carry. Even if you did succeed, you might as well paint a target on your back yourself."

Vera crossed her arms over her chest and suppressed a shiver. "I know that. I just don't see a better alternative."

"There's always an alternative. Whether it is better is a different matter."

"No." She shook her head again. "No way. I'm not asking Undnar. Absolutely not. I don't..."

She didn't finish, but the merc guessed the rest regardless. He chuckled, on the exhausted side of bitter. "Don't want to end up like me, partner? No need to worry about that." He inhaled, releasing the smoke with a hiss. "My patron does not retain my services through ownership, if that's your concern. Undnar is many things. A slaver isn't one of them."

"He is a liar."

"And who isn't?" When he received no argument form her on that particular nugget of wisdom, Sero sighed quietly and rubbed his face, like wiping off cobwebs. "Think of it this way. You have a goal, and limited tools at your disposal. Why not use the one best suited for the task, if it is within your reach?"

Aha. She didn't know whether the slip-up was intentional. Might as well ask. "What about you, Teldryn?" She used his given name deliberately, a buffer against what came next. "What sort of goal is Undnar the best tool for?"

She felt him tense, a subtle shift of shadows. "Still a bit short of one hundred, hmm? Remind me, what's the score?"

"Depends on how we count the kiss."

He cracked a smile. "We could itemize it, if you'd like. For now, seems to me that Undnar is the best tool for your particular predicament."

"And what will it cost me?"

"At a guess? Nothing you won't be willing to pay."

She thought about it. In the collective history of assorted dumbassery, throwing someone like Undnar at something like the Thalmor and their puppets was probably not the most harebrained idea, but it certainly had its eye on the consolation prize. She'd be insane to do it. Then again, perhaps it was insane enough to work. And if it landed Undnar into trouble? Well… There were worse outcomes.

Playing it all in, either way.

Sero read her expression and gestured towards the steps. "Lead on."

* * *

**Author's note**: This fic is cross-posted from AO3, where you can find my writings under the pseud paraparadigm. I'm so sorry it's taking me ages to port this here, but life and all that. If you like the story, the AO3 version is up to chapter 24 at the moment. Thank you for your reading eyes!


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